THE 

GOLDEN    TREASURY 

SELECTED   FROM   THE   BEST   SONGS   AND    LYRICAL 

POEMS    IN    THE    ENGLISH     LANGUAGE 

AND  ARRANGED  WITH   NOTES 

BY 

FRANCIS    T.  PALGRAVE 

LATE   PROFESSOR   OF   POETRY   IN  THfTUNIVERSITY  OF  OXFP*»t 

REVISED  AND   ENLARGED 

TWO   VOLUMES   IN    ONE 


gork 
THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

LONDON:  MACMILLAN  &  Co.,  LTD. 


A  V  rights 


TO 

ALFRED  TENNYSON 

POET   LAUREATE 

THIS  book  in  its  progress  has  recalled  often  to  my 
memory  a  man  with  whose  friendship  we  were  once 
honoured,  to  whom  no  region  of  English  Literature 
was  unfamiliar,  and  who,  whilst  rich  in  all  the  noble 
gifts  of  Nature,  was  most  eminently  distinguished  by 
the  noblest  and  the  rarest, — just  judgment  and  high- 
hearted patriotism.  It  would  have  been  hence  a 
peculiar  pleasure  and  pride  to  dedicate  what  I  have 
endeavoured  to  make  a  true  national  Anthology  of 
three  centuries  to  Henry  Hallam.  But  he  is  beyond 
the  reach  of  any  human  tokens  of  love  and  reverence  ; 
and  I  desire  therefore  to  place  before  it  a  name  united 
with  his  by  associations  which,  while  Poetry  retains 
her  hold  on  the  minds  of  Englishmen,  are  not  likely 
to  be  forgotten. 

Your  encouragement,  given  while  traversing  the 
wild  scenery  of  Treryn  Dinas,  led  me  to  begin  the 
work  ;  and  it  has  been  completed .  under  your  advice 
and  assistance.  For  the  favour  now  asked  I  have 
thus  a  second  reason  :  and  to  this  I  may  add,  the 
homage  which  is  your  right  as  Poet,  and  the  gratitude 
due  to  a  Friend,  whose  regard  I  rate  at  no  common 
value. 


426189 


Permit  me  then  to  inscribe  to  yourself  a  book 
which,  I  hope,  may  be  found  by  many  a  lifelong 
fountain  of  innocent  and  exalted  pleasure  ;  a  source 
of  animation  to  friends  when  they  meet ;  and  able  to 
sweeten  solitude  itself  with  best  society, — with  the 
companionship  of  the  wise  and  the  good,  with  the 
beauty  which  the  eye  cannot  see,  and  the  music  only 
heard  in  silence.  If  this  Collection  proves  a  store- 
house of  delight  to  Labour  and  to  Poverty, — if  it 
teaches  those  indifferent  to  the  Poets  to  love  them, 
and  those  who  love  them  to  love  them,  more,  the  aim 
and  the  desire  entertained  in  framing  it  will  be  fully 
accomplished. 

F.T.P. 

MAY:  1861 


PREFACE 

THIS  little  Collection  differs,  it  is  believed,  from  others 
in  the  attempt  made  to  include  in  it  all  the  best  original 
Lyrical  pieces  and  Songs  in  our  language  (save  a  very 
few  regretfully  omitted  on  account  of  length),  by 
writers  not  living, — and  none  beside  the  best.  Many 
familiar  verses  will  hence  be  met  with  ;  many  also 
which  should  be  familiar  : — the  Editor  will  regard  as 
his  fittest  readers  those  who  love  Poetry  so  well,  that 
he  can  offer  them  nothing  not  already  known  and 
valued. 

The  Editor  is  acquainted  with  no  strict  and 
exhaustive  definition  of  Lyrical  Poetry  ;  but  he  has 
found  the  task  of  practical  decision  increase  in  clear- 
-  ness  and  in  facility  as  he  advanced  with  the  work, 
whilst  keeping  in  view  a  few  simple  principles. 
Lyrical  has  been  here  held  essentially  to  imply  that 
each  Poem  shall  turn  on  some, single  thought,  feeling, 
or  situation.  In  accordance  with  this,  narrative, 
descriptive,  and  didactic  poems, — unless  accompanied 
by  rapidity  of  movement,  brevity,  and  the  colouring 
of  human  passion, — have  been  excluded.  Humourous 
poetry,  except  in  the  very  unfrequent  instances  where 
a  truly  poetical  tone  pervades  the  whole,  with  what  is 
strictly  personal,  occasional,  and  religious,  has  been 
considered  foreign  to  the  idea  of  the  book.  Blank 
verse  and  the  ten-syllable  couplet,  with  all  pieces 
markedly  dramatic,  have  been  rejected  as  alien  from 
what  is  commonly  understood  by  Song,  and  rarely 
conforming  to  Lyrical  conditions  in  treatment.  But 
it  is  not  anticipated,  nor  is  it  possible,  that  all  readers 
shall  think  the  line  accurately  drawn.  Some  poems, 
as  Gray's  Elegy,  the  Allegro  and  Penseroso,  Words- 
worth's Ruth  or  Campbell's  Lord  Ullin,  might  be 
claimed  with  perhaps  equal  justice  for  a  narrative  or 
descriptive  selection  :  whilst  with  reference  especially 
to  Ballads  and  Sonnets,  the  Editor  can  only  state  that 
he  has  taken  his  utmost  pains  to  decide  without  caprice 
or  partiality. 


This  also  is  all  he  can  plead  in  regard  to  a  point 
even  more  liable  to  question  ;— what  degree  of  merit 
should  give  rank  among  the  Best.  That  a  poem 
shall  be  worthy  of  the  writer's  genius, — that  it  shall 
reach  a  perfection  commensurate  with  its  aim,  — that 
we  should  require  finish  in  proportion  to  brevity, — 
that  passion,  colour,  and  originality  cannot  atone  for 
serious  imperfections  in  clearness,  unity  or  truth, — 
that  a  few  good  lines  do  not  make  a  good  poem,  that 
popular  estimate  is  serviceable  as  a  guidepost  more 
than  as  a  compass, — above  all,  that  excellence  should 
be  looked  for  rather  in  the  whole  than  in  the  parts, — 
such  and  other  such  canons  have  been  always  steadily 
regarded.  He  may  however  add  that  the  pieces 
chosen,  and  a  far  larger  number  rejected,  have  been 
carefully  and  repeatedly  considered  ;  and  that  he  has 
been  aided  throughout  by  two  friends  of  independent 
and  exercised  judgment,  besides  the  distinguished 
person  addressed  in  the  Dedication.  It  is  hoped  that 
by  this  procedure  the  volume  has  been  freed  from  that 
one-sidedness  which  must  beset  individual  decisions  : 
— but  for  the  final  choice  the  Editor  is  alone 
responsible. 

Chalmers'  vast  collection,  with  the  whole  works  of 
all  accessible  poets  not  contained  in  it,  and  the  best 
Anthologies  of  different  periods,  have  been  twice 
systematically  read  through  :  and  it  is  hence  im- 
probable that  any  omissions  which  may  be  regretted 
are  due  to  oversight.  The  poems  are  printed  entire, 
except  in  a  very  few  instances  where  a  stanza  or 
passage  has  been  omitted.  These  omissions  have  been 
risked  only  when  the  piece  could  be  thus  brought  to  a 
closer  lyrical  unity :  and,  as  essentially  opposed  to 
this  unity,  extracts,  obviously  such,  are  excluded.  In 
regard  to  the  text,  the  purpose  of  the  book  has 
appeared  to  justify  the  choice  of  the  most  poetical 
version,  wherever  more  than  one  exists ;  and  much 
labour  has  been  given  to  present  each  poem,  in 
disposition,  spelling,  and  punctuation,  to  the  greatest 
advantage.  & 

In  the  arrangement,  the  most  poetically-effective 
order  has  been  attempted.  The  English  mind  has 
passed  through  phases  of  thought  and  cultivation  so 


various  and  so  opposed  during  these  three  centuries  o\ 
Poetry,  that  a  rapid  passage  between  old  and  new, 
like  rapid  alteration  of  the  eye's  focus  in  looking  at 
the  landscape,  will  always  be  wearisome  and  hurtful 
to  the  sense  of  Beauty.  The  poems  have  been  there- 
fore distributed  into  Books  corresponding,  I  to  the 
ninety  years  closing  about  1616,  II  thence  to  1700, 
III  to  1800,  IV  to  the  half  century  just  ended.  Or, 
looking  at  the  Poets  who  more  or  less  give  each 
portion  its  distinctive  character,  they  might  be  called 
the  Books  of  Shakespeare,  Milton,  Gray,  and  Words- 
worth. The  volume,  in  this  respect,  so  far  as  the 
limitations  of  its  ra*nge  allow,  accurately  reflects  the 
natural  growth  and  evolution  of  our  Poetry.  A 
rigidly  chronological  sequence,  however,  rather  fits  a 
collection  aiming  at  instruction  than  at  pleasure,  and 
the  wisdom  which  comes  through  pleasure : — within 
each  book  the  pieces  have  therefore  been  arranged  in 
gradations  of  feeling  or  subject.  And  it  is  hoped 
that  the  contents  of  this  Anthology  will  thus  be  found 
to  present  a  certain  unity,  '  as  episodes,'  in  the  noble 
language  of  Shelley,  '  to  that  great  Poem  which  all 
poets,  like  the  co-operating  thoughts  of  one  great 
mind,  have  built  up  sinfce  the  beginning  of  the 
world.' 

As  he  closes  his  long  survey,  the  Editor  trusts  he 
may  add  without  egotism,  that  he  has  found  the  vague 
general  verdict  of  popular  Fame  more  just  than  those 
have  thought,  who,  with  too  severe  a  criticism,  would 
confine  judgments  on  Poetry  to  '  the  selected  few  of 
many  generations.'  Not  many  appear  to  have  gainecf 
reputation  without  some  gift  or  performance  that,  in  due 
degree,  deserved  it :  and  if  no  verses  by  certain  writers 
who  show  less  strength  than  sweetness,  or  more 
thought  than  mastery  of  expression,  are  printed  in 
this  volume,  it  should  not  be  imagined  that  they  have 
been  excluded  without  much  hesitation  and  regret, — 
far  less  that  they  have  been  slighted.  Throughout 
this  vast  and  pathetic  array  of  Singers  now  silent,  few 
have  been  honoured  with  the  name  Poet,  and  have 
not  possessed  a  skill  in  words,  a  sympathy  with  beauty, 
a  tenderness  of  feeling,  or  seriousness  in  reflection, 
which  render  their  works,  although  never  perhaps 


attaining  that  loftier  and  finer  excellence  here  required, 
— better  worth  reading  than  much  of  what  fills  the 
scanty  hours  that  most  men  spare  for  self-improve- 
ment, or  for  pleasure  in  any  of  its  more  elevated  and 
permanent  forms. — And  if  this  be  true  of  even 
mediocre  poetry,  for  how  much  more  are  we  indebted 
to  the  best  !  Like  the  fabled  fountain  of  the  Azores, 
but  with  a  more  various  power,  the  magic  of  this  Art 
can  confer  on  each  period  of  life  its  appropriate 
blessing :  on  early  years  Experience,  on  maturity 
Calm,  on  age,  Youthfulness.  Poetry  gives  treasures 
'  more  golden  than  gold,'  leading  us  in  higher  and 
healthier  ways  than  those  of  the  world,  and  interpret- 
ing to  us  the  lessons  of  Nature.  But  she  speaks  best 
for  herself.  Her  true  accents,  if  the  plan  has  been 
executed  with  success,  may  be  heard  throughout  the 
following  pages  : — wherever  the  Poets  of  England  are 
honoured,  wherever  the  dominant  language  of  the 
world  is  spoken,  it  is  hoped  that  they  will  find  fit 
audience. 

1861 

Some  poems,  especially  in  Book  I,  have  been 
added  : — either  on  better  acquaintance  ; — in  deference 
to  critical  suggestions  ; — or  unknown  to  the  Editor 
when  first  gathering  his  harvest.  For  aid  in  these 
after-gleanings  he  is  specially  indebted  to  the  excellent 
reprints  of  rare  early  verse  given  us  by  Dr.  Hannah, 
Dr.  Grosart,  Mr.  Arber,  Mr  Bullen,  and  others. — 
and  (in  regard  to  the  additions  of  1883)  to  the  advice 
of  that  distinguished  Friend,  by  whom  the  final  choice 
has  been  so  largely  guided.  The  text  has  also  been 
carefully  revised  from  authoritative  sources.  It  has  still 
seemed  best,  for  many  reasons,  to  retain  the  original 
limit  by  which  the  selection  was  confined  to  those  then 
no  longer  living.  But  the  editor  hopes  that,  so  far  as, 
in  him  lies,  a  complete  and  definitive  collection  of  our 
best  Lyrics,  to  the  central  year  of  this  fast-closing 
century,  is  now  offered. 

1883- 1890-1891 


Contents 


DEDICATION 

PREFACE          .  PAGE 

BOOK  1 1 

BOOK  II 56 

BOOK  III 133 

BOOK  IV 197 

ADDITIONAL  POEMS 349 

NOTES 435 

INDEX  OP  WRITERS 463 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES       ,  475 


El's  rbv  \ci 

€^p€TT€V   $T€pOV   ^ 

alpo/jLtvos  &yp€vfjC 


fmt 


SPRING 

t  % 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king  : 
Then  blooms  each  thing,  then  maids  dance  in  a  ring, 
Cold  doth  not  sting,  the  pretty  birds  do  sing, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 

The  palm  and  may  make  country  houses  gay, 
Lambs  frisk  and  play,  the  shepherds  pipe  all  day, 
And  we  hear  aye  birds  tune  this  merry  lay, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo. 

The  fields  breathe  sweet,  the  daisies  kiss  our  feet, 
Young  lovers  meet,  old  wives  a-sunning  sit, 
In  every  street  these  tunes  our  ears  do  greet, 
Cuckoo,  jug-jug,  pu-we,  to-witta-woo  ! 
Spring  !  the  sweet  Spring  ! 
T.  Nash 

B 


BOOK 

ii 
THE  FAIRY  LIFE 


Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie  ; 

There  I  couch,  when  owls  do  cry  : 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough  i 


ill 

2 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands  : 
Courtsied  when  you  have,  and  kiss'd 

The  wild  waves  whist, 
Foot  it  featly  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  Sprites,  the  burthen  bear. 
Hark,  hark  ! 

Bow-bow. 
The  watch-dogs  bark  : 

Bow-wow. 
Hark,  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry,  Cock-a-diddle-dow  ! 

W.  Shakespeare 


IV 

SUMMONS  TO  LOVE 

Phoebus,  arise  ! 

And  paint  the  sable  skies 

With  azure,  white,  and  red  : 

Rouse  Memnon's  mother  from  her  Tithon's  bed 


FIRST 

That  she  may  thy  career  with  roses  spread  : 

The  nightingales  thy  coming  each-where  sing: 

Make  an  eternal  Spring  ! 

Give  life  to  this  dark  world  which  lieth  dead  ; 

Spread  forth  thy  golden  hair 

In  larger  locks  than  thou  wast  wont  before, 

And  emperor-like  decore 

With  diadem  of  pearl  thy  temples  fair  : 

Chase  hence  the  ugly  night 

Which  serves  but  to  make  dear  thy  glorious  light 

— This  is  that  happy  morn, 

That  day,  long-wished  day 

Of  all  my  life  so  dark, 

(If  cruel  stars  have  not  my  ruin  sworn 

And  fates  my  hopes  betray), 

Which,  purely  white,  deserves  * 

An  everlasting  diamond  should  it  mark. 

This  is  the  morn  should  bring  unto  this  grove 

My  Love,  to  hear  and  recompense  my  love. 

Fair  King,  who  all  preserves, 

But  show  thy  blushing  beams, 

And  thou  two  sweeter  eyes 

Shalt  see  than  those  which  by  Peneus'  streams 

Did  once  thy  heart  surprize. 

Now,  Flora,  deck  thyself  in  fairest  guise  : 

If  that  ye  winds  would  hear 

A  voice  surpassing  far  Amprnorx's  lyre, 

Your  furious  chiding  stay  ; 

Let  Zephyr  only  breathe, 

And  with  her  tresses  play. 

— The  winds  all  silent  are, 

And  Phoebus  in  his  chair 

Ensaffroning  sea  and  air 

Makes  vanish  every  star  : 

Night  like  a  drunkard  reels 

Beyond  the  hills,  to  shun  his  flaming  wheels : 

The  fields  with  flowers  are  deck'd  in  every  hue, 

The  clouds  with  orient  gold  spangle  their  blue  ; 

Here  is  the  pleasant  place— 

And  nothing  wanting  is,  save  She,  alas  ! 

W.  Drummond  of  Hawthornden 


BOOK 

v 
TIME  AND  LOVE 


When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced 
The  rich  proud  cost  of  out-worn  buried  age  ; 
WThen  sometime  lofty  towers  I  see  down-razed, 
And  brass  eternal  slave  to  mortal  rage  ; 

When  I  have  seen  the  hungry  ocean  gain 
Advantage  on  the  kingdom  of  the  shore, 
And  the  firm  soil  win  of  the  watery  main, 
Increasing  store  with  loss,  and  loss  with  store  ; 

When  I  have  seen  such  interchange  of  state, 
Or  statfcitself  confounded  to  decay, 
Ruin  hath  taught  me  thus  to  ruminate — 
That  Time  will  come  and  take  my  Love  away : 

— This  thought  is  as  a  death,  which  cannot  choose 
But  weep  to  have  that  which  it  fears  to  lose. 

IV.  Shakespeare 

VI 


Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea, 
But  sad  mortality  o'ersways  their  power, 
How  with  this  rage  shall  beauty  hold  a  plea, 
Whose  action  is  no  stronger  than  a  flower  ? 

O  how  shall  summer's  honey  breath  hold  out 
Against  the  wreckful  siege  of  battering  days, 
When  rocks  impregnable  are  not  so  stout 
Nor  gates  of  steel  so  strong,  but  time  decays  ? 

O  fearful  meditation  !  where,  alack  ! 
Shall  Time's  best  jewel  from  Time's  chest  lie  hid  ? 
Or  what  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back, 
Or  who  his  spoil  of  beauty  can  forbid  ? 

O  !  none,  unless  this  miracle  have  might, 

That  in  black  ink  my  love  may  still  shine  bright 

W.  Shakespeare 


FIRST 


VII 

THE  PASSION  A  TE  SHEPHERD  TO  HIS 
LOVE 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks, 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
And  a  thousand  fragrant  posies, 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroider'd  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull, 
Fair  lined  slippers  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 

A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs : 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

Thy  silver  dishes  for  thy  meat 
As  precious  as  the  gods  do  eat, 
Shall  on  an  ivory  table  be 
Prepared  each  day  for  thee  and  me. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight  each  May-morning  : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love. 

C.  Marlowe 


BOOK 

VIII 
OMNIA   V1NCIT 

Fain  would  I  change  that  note 
To  which  fond  Love  hath  charm'd  me 
Long  long  to  sing  by  rote, 
Fancying  that  that  harm'd  me  : 
Yet  when  this  thought  doth  come 
*  Love  is  the  perfect  sum 

Of  all  delight,' 
I  have  no  other  choice 
Either  for  pen  or  voice 

To  sing  or  write. 

0  Love  !  they  wrong  thee  much 
That  say  thy  sweet  is  bitter, 
When  thy  rich  fruit  is  such 

As  nothing  can  be  sweeter. 
Fair  house  of  joy  and  bliss, 
Where  truest  pleasure  is, 
I  do  adore  thee  : 

1  know  thee  what  thou  art, 
I  serve  thee  with  my  heart, 

And  fall  before  thee  ! 
Anon. 


IX 
A  MADRIGAL 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 
Cannot  live  together : 
Youth  is  full  of  pleasance, 
Age  is  full  of  care  ; 
Youth  like  summer  morn, 
Age  like  winter  weather, 
Youth  like  summer  brave, 
Age  like  winter  bare  : 


FIRST 

Youth  is  full  of  sport, 
Age's  breath  is  short, 
Youth  is  nimble,  Age  is  lame  : 
Youth  is  hot  and  bold, 
Age  is  weak  and  cold, 
Youth  is  wild,  and  Age  is  tame  : — 
Age,  I  do  abhor  thee, 
Youth,  I  do  adore  thee  ; 
O  !  my  Love,  my  Love  is  young  ! 
Age,  I  do  defy  thee — 
O  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 
For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 
W.  Shakespeare 


Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats 
And  pleased  with  what  he  gets — 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

W.  Shakespeare 


BOOK 


XI 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino  ! 
That  o'er  the  green  corn-field  did  pass 
In  the  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding  : 

Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

Between  the  acres  of  the  rye 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie  : 
This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 
How  that  life  was  but  a  flower : 

And  therefore  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho  and  a  hey  nonino  ! 
For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring  time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding  : 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XII 

PRESENT  IN  ABSENCE 

Absence,  hear  thou  this  protestation 

Against  thy  strength, 

Distance,  and  length  ; 
Do  what  thou  canst  for  alteration  : 

For  hearts  of  truest  mettle 
Absence  doth  join,  and  Time  doth  settle. 

Who  loves  a  mistress  of  such  quality, 
His  mind  hath  found 
Affection's  ground 
Beyond  time,  place,  and  mortality. 

To  hearts  that  cannot  vary 
Absence  is  present,  Time  doth  tarry, 


FIRST 

By  absence  this  good  means  I  gain, 
That  I  can  catch  her, 
Where  none  can  match  her, 
In  some  close  corner  of  my  brain  : 

There  I  embrace  and  kiss  her  ; 
And  so  I  both  enjoy  and  miss  her. 

J.  Donne 


XIII 

VIA  AMORIS 

High-way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be, 
And  that  my  Muse,  to  some  ears  not  unsweet, 
Tempers  her  words  to  trampling  horses'  feet 
More  oft  than  to  a  chamber  melody,— 

Now,  blessed  you  bear  onward  blessed  me 
To  her,  where  I  my  heart,  safe-left,  shall  meet ; 
My  Muse  and  I  must  you  of  duty  greet 
With  thanks  and  wishes,  wishing  thankfully  ; 

Be  you  still  fair,  honour'd  by  public  heed  ; 
By  no  encroachment  wrong'd,  nor  time  forgot ; 
Nor  blamed  for  blood,  nor  shamed  for  sinful  deed  ; 
And  that  you  know  I  envy  you  no  lot 

Of  highest  wish,  I  wish  you  so  much  bliss, — 
Hundreds  of  years  you  Stella's  feet  may  kiss  ! 

Sir  P.  Sidney 

XIV 

ABSENCE 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend 
Upon  the  hours  and  times  of  your  desire  ? 
I  have  no  precious  time  at  all  to  spend 
Nor  services  to  do,  till  you  require  : 

Nor  dare  I  chide  the  world-without-end-hour 
Whilst  I,  my  sovereign,  watch  the  clock  for  you, 
Nor  think  the  bitterness  of  absence  sour 
When  you  have  bid  your  servant  once  adieu  : 


io  BOOK 

Nor  dare  I  question  with  my  jealous  thought 
Where  you  may  be,  or  your  affairs  suppose, 
But  like  a  sad  slave,  stay  and  think  of  nought 
Save,  where  you  are,  how  happy  you  make  those  ; — 

So  true  a  fool  is  love,  that  in  your  will 
Though  you  do  anything,  he  thinks  no  ill. 

W.  Shakespeare 


How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been 
From  Thee,  the  pleasure  of  the  fleeting  year  ! 
What  freezings  have  I  felt,  what  dark  days  seen, 
What  old  December's  bareness  everywhere  ! 

And  yet  this  time  removed  was  summer's  time  : 
The  teeming  autumn,  big  with  rich  increase, 
Bearing  the  wanton  burden  of  the  prime 

Like  widow'd  wombs  after  their  lords'  decease  : 

«v 

Vet  this  abundant  issue  seem'd  to  me 
But  hope  of  orphans,  and  unfather'd  fruit ; 
For  summer  and  his  pleasures  wait  on  thee, 
And,  thou  away,  the  very  birds  are  mute  ; 

Or  if  they  sing,  'tis  with  so  dull  a  cheer, 
That  leaves  look  pale,  dreading  the  winter's  near. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XVI 

A  CONSOLATION 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes 
I  all  alone  beweep  my  outcast  state, 
And  trouble  deaf  heaven  with  my  bootless  cries, 
And  look  upon  myself,  and  curse  my  fate  ; 

Wishing  me  like  to  one  more  rich  in  hope, 
Featured  like  him,  like  him  with  friend's  possest, 
Desiring  this  man's  art,  and  that  man's  scope, 
With  what  I  most  enjoy  contented  least ; 


FIRST  n 

Vet  in  these  thoughts  myself  almost  despising, 
Haply  I  think  on  Thee — and  then  my  state, 
Like  to  the  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate  ; 
For  thy  sweet  love  remember'd,  such  wealth  brings 
That  then  I  scorn  to  change  my  state  with  kings. 

W.  Shakespeare 

XVII 

THE  UNCHANGEABLE 

O  never  say  that  I  was  false  of  heart, 
Though  absence  seem'd  my  flame  to  qualify  : 
As  easy  might  I  from  myself  depart 
As  from  my  soul,  which  in  thy  breast  doth  lie  ; 
That  is  my  home  of  love  ;  if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  again, 
Just  to  the  time,  not  with  the  time  exchanged, 
So  that  myself  bring  water  for  my  stain. 
Never  believe,  though  in  my  nature  reign'd 
All  frailties  that  besiege  all  kinds  of  blood, 
That  it  could  so  preposterously  be  stain'd 
To  leave  for  nothing  all  thy  sum  of  good  ; 
For  nothing  this  wide  universe  I  call, 
Save  thou,  my  rose  :  in  it  thou  irt  my  all. 

W.  Shakespeare 


To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 

For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed 

Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters'  cold 

Have  from  the  forests  shook  three  summers'  pride  ; 

Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 

Three  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 

Since  first  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green- 

Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure,  and  no  pace  perceived ; 


12  BOOK 

So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand, 
Hath  motion,  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived  : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred, — 
Ere  you  were  born,  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 

W.  Shakespeare 

XIX 

ROSALINE 

•    Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere 
Where  all  imperial  glory  shines, 
Of  selfsame  colour  is  her  hair 
Whether  unfolded,  or  in  twines  : 

Heigh  ho,-  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  eyes  are  sapphires  set  in  snow, 
Resembling  heaven  by  every  wink  ; 
The  Gods  do  fear  whenas  they  glow, 
And  I  do  tremble  when  I  think 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  cheeks  are  like  the  blushing  cloud 
That  beautifies  Aurora's  face, 
Or  like  the  silver  crimson  shroud 
That  Phoebus'  smiling  looks  doth  grace  ; 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Her  lips  are  like  two  budded  roses 
Whom  ranks  of  lilies  neighbour  nigh, 
Within  which  bounds  she  balm  encloses 
Apt  to  entice  a  deity  : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 

Her  neck  is  like  a  stately  tower 
Where  Love  himself  imprison'd  lies, 
To  watch  for  glances  every  hour 
From  her  divine  and  sacred  eyes  : 

Heigh  ho,  for  Rosaline  ! 
Her  paps  are  centres  of  delight, 
Her  breasts  are  orbs  of  heavenly  frame, 
Where  Nature  moulds  the  dew  of  light 
To  feed  perfection  with  the  same  : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  nvne  ' 


FIRST  13 

With  orient  pearl,  with  ruby  red, 
With  marble  white,  with  sapphire  blue 
Her  body  every  way  is  fed, 
Yet  soft  in  touch  and  sweet  in  view  : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ! 
Nature  herself  her  shape  admires  ; 
The  Gods  are  wounded  in  her  sight ; 
And  Love  forsakes  his  heavenly  fires 
And  at  her  eyes  his  brand  doth  light : 

Heigh  ho,  would  she  were  mine  ! 
Then  muse  not,  Nymphs,  though  I  bemoan 
The  absence  of  fair  Rosaline, 
Since  for  a  fair  there's  fairer  none, 
Nor  for  her  virtues  so  divine  : 

Heigh  ho,  fair  Rosaline  ; 
deigh  ho,  my  heart !  would  God  that  she  were  mine" 

T.  Lodge 
xx 

COLIN 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 

Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her ; 
The  winds  blew  calm,  the  birds  did  sing, 

The  cool  streams  ran  beside  her. 
My  wanton  thoughts  enticed  mine  eye 

To  see  what  was  forbidden  : 
But  better  memory  said,  fie  ! 

So  vain  desire  was  chidden  : — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  O  ! 
Hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

Into  a  slumber  then  I  fell, 
When  fond  imagination 
Seeme'd  to  see,  but  could  not  tell 

Her  feature  or  her  fashion. 
But  ev'n  as  babes  in  dreams  do  smile, 

And  sometimes  fall  a-weeping, 
So  I  awaked,  as  wise  this  while 
As  when  I  fell  a-sleeping  : — 

Hey  nonny  nonny  O  ! 
Hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

The  Shepherd  Tome 


14  BOOK 

XXI 

A  PICTURE 

Sweet  Love,  if  thou  wilt  gain  a  monarch's  glory, 
Subdue  her  heart,  who  makes  me  glad  and  sorry : 
Out  of  thy  golden  quiver 
Take  thou  thy  strongest  arrow 
That  will  through  bone  and  marrow, 
And  me  and  thee  of  grief  and  fear  deliver  : — 
But  come  behind,  for  if  she  look  upon  thee, 
Alas  !  poor  Love  !  then  thou  art  woe-begone  thee  i 

Anon. 


XXII 

A  SONG  FOR  MUSIC 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains  :- 

\\hat  need  you  flow  so  fast? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste  ! 
But  my  Sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping. 

Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets  : — 
\>th  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 
When  fair  at  even  he  sets  ? 

— Rest  you,  then,  rest,  sad  eyes  I 
Melt  not  in  weeping  ! 
While  She  lies  sleeping 
Softly,  now  softly  lies, 
Sleeping  ! 

Anon. 


FIRST  15 

XXIII 

TO  HIS  LOVE 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  ? 
Thou  art  more  lovely  and  more  temperate  : 
Rough  winds  do  shake  the  darling  buds  of  May, 
And  summer's  lease  hath  all  too  short  a  date  : 

Sometime  too  hot  the  eye  of  heaven  shines, 

And  often  is  his  gold  complexion  dimm'd  : 

And  every  fair  from  fair  sometime  declines, 

By  chance,  or  nature's  changing  course,  untrimm'd 

But  thy  eternal  summer  shall  not  fade 
Nor  lose  possession  of  that  fair  thou  owest ; 
Nor  shall  Death  brag  thou  wanderest  in  his  shade, 
When  in  eternal  lines  to  time  thou  growest  : — 

So  long  as  men  can  breathe,  or  eyes  can  see, 
So  long  lives  this,  and  this  gives  life  to  thee. 

W.  Shakespeare 

XXIV 

TO  HIS  LOVE 

When  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time 
I  see  descriptions  of  the  fairest  wights, 
And  beauty  making  beautiful  old  rhyme 
In  praise  of  ladies  dead,  and  lovely  knights  ; 

Then  in  the  blazon  of  sweet  beauty's  best 
Of  hand,  of  foot,  of  lip,  of  eye,  of  brow, 
I  see  their  antique  pen  would  have  exprest 
Ev'n  such  a  beauty  as  you  master  now. 

So  all  their  praises  are  but  prophecies 
Of  this  our  time,  all,  you  prefiguring  ; 
And  for  they  look'd  but  with  divining  eyes, 
They  had  not  skill  enough  vour.  worth  to  sing  : 

For  we,  which  now  behold  these  present  days, 
Have  eyes  to  wonder,  but  lack  tongues  to  praise. 

W.  Shakespeare 


16  BOOK 

XXV 

BASIA 

Turn  back,  you  wanton  flyer. 
And  answer  my  desire 

With  mutual  greeting. 
Yet  bend  a  little  nearer, — 
True  beauty  still  shines  clearer 

In  closer  meeting  ! 
Hearts  with  hearts  delighted 
Should  strive  to  be  united, 
Each  other's  arms  with  arms  enchair/ing, — 

Hearts  with  a  thought, 
Rosy  lips  with  a  kiss  still  entertaining. 

What  harvest  half  so  sweet  is 
As  still  to  reap  the  kisses 

Grown  ripe  in  sowing  ? 
And  straight  to  be  receiver 
Of  that  which  thou  art  giver, 

Rich  in  bestowing  ? 
There  is  no  strict  observing 
Of  times'  or  seasons'  swerving, 
There  is  ever  one  fresh  spring  abiding ; 
Then  what  we  sow  with  our  lips 
Let  us  reap,  love's  gains  dividing. 

To  Campion 


XXVI 

ADVICE    TO  A  GIRL 

Never  love  unless  you  can 

Bear  with  all  the  faults  of  man  ! 

Men  sometimes  will  jealous  be 

Though  but  little  cause  they  see. 

And  hang  the  head  as  discontent, 

And  speak  what  straight  they  will  repent 


FIRST  17 

Men,  that  but  one  Saint  adore, 
Make  a  show  of  love  to  more  ; 
Beauty  must  be  scorn'd  in  none, 
Though  but  truly  served  in  one  : 
For  what  is  courtship  but  disguise  ? 
True  hearts  may  have  dissembling  eyes. 

Men,  when  their  affairs  require, 
Must  awhile  themselves  retire  ; 
Sometimes  hunt,  and  sometimes  hawk, 
And  not  ever  sit  and  tall: : — 
If  these  and  such-like  you  can  bear, 
Then  like,  and  love,  and  never  fear  ! 

T.  Campion 


XXVLI 

LOVE'S  PERJURIES 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day  ! 
Love,  whose  month  is  ever  May, 
Spied  a  blossom  passing  fair 
Playing  in  the  wanton  air : 
Through  the  velvet  leaves  the  wind, 
All  unseen,  'gan  passage  find : 
That  the  lover,  sick  to  death, 
Wish'd  himself  the  heaven's  breath. 
Air,  quoth  he,  thy  cheeks  may  blow  ; 
Air,  would  I  might  triumph  so  ! 
But,  alack,  my  hand  is  sworn 
Ne'er  to  pluck  thee  from  thy  thorn  : 
Vow,  alack,  for  youth  unmeet ; 
Youth  so  apt  to  pluck  a  sweet. 
Do  not  call  it  sin  in  me 
That  I  am  forsworn  for  thee : 
Thou  for  whom  Jove  would  swear 
Juno  but  an  Ethiope  were, 
And  deny  himself  for  Jove, 
Turning  mortal  for  thy  love. 

W.  Shakespeare 


;8  BOOK 

XXVIII 

A  SUPPLICATION 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 
Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet  ! 

P'orget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life  ye  know,  since  whan 
The  suit,  the  service  none  tell  can  ; 
Forget  not  yet  ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 

Forget  not  yet  ! 

Forget  not  !  O,  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss — 
Forget  not  yet  ! 

Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved— 
Forget  not  this  ! 

Sir  T.  Wya> 

XXIX 
TO  AURORA 

O  if  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm, 
And  dost  prejudge  thy  bliss,  and  spoil  my  rest ; 
Then  thou  would'st  melt  the  ice  out  of  thy  breast 
And  thy  relenting  heart  would  kindly  warm. 

O  if  thy  pride  did  not  our  joys  controul, 
What  world  of  loving  wonders  should'st  thou  see  J 
For  if  I  saw. thee  once  transform'd  in  me, 
Then  in  thy  bosom  I  would  pour  my  soul ; 


FIRST  19 

Then  all  my  thoughts  should  in  thy  visage  shine, 
And  if  that  aught  mischanced  thou  sliould'st  not  moan 
Nor  bear  the  burthen  of  thy  griefs  alone  ; 
No,  I  would  have  my  share  in  what  were  thine  : 

And  whilst  we  thus  should  make  our  sorrows  one, 
This  happy  harmony  would  make  them  none. 

W.  Alexander^  Earl  of  Sterline 


XXX 

IN  LACRIMAS 

I  saw  my  Lady  weep, 
And  Sorrow  proud  to  be  advanced  so 
In  those  fair  eyes  where  all  perfections  keep. 

Her  face  was  full  of  woe, 

But  such  a  woe  (believe  me)  as  wins  more  hearts 
Than  Mirth  can  do  with  her  enticing  parts. 

Sorrow  was  there  made  fair, 
And  Passion,  wise  ;  Tears,  a  delightful  thing  ; 
Silence,  beyond  all  speech,  a  wisdom  rare  : 

She  made  her  sighs  to  sing, 
And  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  sadness  move 
As  made  my  heart  at  once  both  grieve  and  love. 

O  fairer  than  aught  else 

The  world  can  show,  leave  off  in  time  to  grieve  ! 
Enough,  enough  :  your  joyful  look  excels  : 

Tears  kill  the  heart,  believe. 
O  strive  not  to  be  excellent  in  woe, 
Which  only  breeds  your  beauty's  overthrow. 

Anon. 


C  2 


20  BOOK 

XXXI 

TRUE  LOVE 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 
Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 
Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 
Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : — 

0  no  !  it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests,  and  is  never  shaken  : 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose  worth's  unknown,  although  his  height  be  taken 

Love's  not  Time's  fool,  though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  ev'n  to  the  edge  of  doom  : — 

If  this  be  error,  and  upon  me  proved, 

1  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XXXII  v 
A  DITTY 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 
By  just  exchange  one  for  another  given  : 
I  hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 
My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him  his  thoughts  and  senses  guides  ; 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his  because  in  me  it  bides  : 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 
Sir  P.  Sidney 


FIRST  2] 

XXXIII 

5  INSIGHT 

Though  others  may  Her  brow  adore 

Yet  more  must  I,  that  therein  see  far  more 

Than  any  other's  eyes  have  power  to  see  : 

She  is  to  me 

More  than  to  any  others  she  can  be  ! 
I  can  discern  more  secret  notes 
That  in  the  margin  of  her  cheeks  Love  quotes, 
Than  any  else  besides  have  art  to  read  : 

No  looks  proceed 

From  those  fair  eyes  but  to  me  wonder  breed. 

Anon. 


XXXIV 

LOVE'S  OMNIPRESENCE 


21   ,y 


Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly,  plain,    2  (  z , 
And  you,  m^Love^  a^s  h^n  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me  your  humble  swain 
Ascend  to  heaven,  in'  honour  of  my  Love. 

Z"     ,'•  'i>     T  ' 

Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain. 

And  ybu^my  Loye,  as  hdmble  and  as .  lo\v 

As  ?Cre  tttej  Deepest  bbftoms&f  the  main,        ,      j:, 

Wheresb'er  you  were,  with  yb\i  my  love  should  go. 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  Love,  dnd  I  the  skies, 

My|  love  should  shine,  $ri  you  lilrj  fe  tr&  stin, 

Aiid  look  "fap6h  ybu  With  ten  thousand  e^s 

fill  heaven  waSc'd  blihl!,  and  till  trie  world  were  dolie. 

Whereso'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Whereso'er  ybu  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love  you. 

/.  Sylvester 


22  BOOK 

XXXV 

CARPE  DIEM 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming  ? 
O  stay  and  hear  !  your  true-love's  coming 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low  ; 
Trip  ho  further,  pretty  sweeting, 
Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting — 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?  'tis  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure  : 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty, — 
Then  come  kiss  me,  Sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

W.  Shakespeare 


xxxvi 
AN  HONEST  A  UTOL  YCUS 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies,  cheap,  choice,  brave,  and  new, 
Good  penny-worths, — but  money  cannot  move  : 

I  keep  a  fair  but  for  the  Fair  to  view  ; 
A  beggar  may  be  liberal  of  love. 

Though  all  my  wares  be  trash,  the  heart  is  true-r- 
The  heart  is  true. 

Great  gifts  are  guiles  and  look  for  gifts  again  ; 
My  trifles  come  as  treasures  from  my.  mind  ; 
it  is  a  precious  jewel  to  be  plain  ; 

Sometimes  in  shell  the  orient'st  pearls  we  find  :  — 
Of  others  take  a  sheaf,  of  me  a  grain  ! 
Of  me  a  grain  ! 
Anon. 


FIRST  23 


XXXVII 

WINTER 

Wlien  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 

And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 
And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 

When  blood  is  nipt,  and  ways  be  foul, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu-whit ! 

To-who  !     A  merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  about  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl — 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl 
Tu-whit ! 

To-who  !     A  merry  note  ! 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XXXVIII 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold 
When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 
Bare  ruin'd  choirs,  where  late  the  sweet  birds  sang : 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 
As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 
Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest : 

In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire, 
That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 
Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by : 


24  BOOK 

— This  thou  perceiv'st,  which  makes  thy  love  more 

strong, 

To  love  that  well  which  thou  must  leave  ere  long. 

IV.  Shakespeare 


XXXIX 

MEMORY 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 

I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 

I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 

And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste  ; 

Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long-since-cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight. 

Then  can  I  grieve  at  grievances  foregone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before  : 

— But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  Friend, 
All  losses  are  restored,  and  sorrows  end. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XL 

SLEEP 

Come,  Sleep  :  O  Sleep  !  the  certain  knot  of  peace, 
The  baiting-place  of  wit,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  poor  man's  wealth,  the  prisoner's  release, 
Th*  indifferent  judge  between  the  high  and  low  ; 

With  shield  of  proof  shield  me  from  out  the  prease 
Of  those  fierce  darts  Despair  at  me  doth  throw  : 

0  make  in  me  those  civil  wars  to  cease  ; 

1  will  good  tribute  pay,  if  thou  do  so. 


FIRST  25 

Take  thou  of  me  smooth  pillows,  sweetest  bed, 
A  chamber  deaf  of  noise  and  blind  of  light, 
A  rosy  garland  and  a  weary  head  : 
And  if  these  things,  as  being  thine  in  right, 

Move  not  thy  heavy  grace,  thou  shalt  in  me, 
Livelier  than  elsewhere,  Stella's   image  see. 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


XLI 

DEVOLUTIONS 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore 
So  do  our  minutes  hasten  to  their  end  ; 
Each  changing  place  with  that  which  goes  before, 
In  sequent  toil  all  forwards  do  contend. 

Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  light, 

Crawls  to  maturity,  wherewith  being  crown'd, 

Crooked  eclipses  'gainst  his  glory  fight, 

And  Time  that  gave,  doth  now  his  gift  confound. 

Time  doth  transfix  the  flourish  set  on  youth, 
And  delves  the  parallels  in  beauty's  brow ; 
Feeds  on  the  rarities  of  nature's  truth, 
And  nothing  stands  but  for  his  scythe  to  mow  : — 

And  yet,  to  times  in  hope,  my  verse  shall  stand 
Praising  Thy  worth,  despite  his  cruel  hand. 

W.  Shakespeart 

-  XLI  I 

Farewell  !  thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing, 
And  like  enough  thou  know'st  thy  estimate  : 
The  charter  of  thy  worth  gives  thee  releasing  ; 
My  bonds  m  thee  are  all  determinate. 

For  how  do  I  hold  thee  but  by  thy  granting  ? 
And  for  that  riches  where  is  my  deserving  ? 
The  cause  of  this  fair  gift  in  me  is  wanting, 
And  so  my  patent  back  again  is  swerving. 


26  BOOK 

Thyself  thou  gav'st,  thy  own  worth  then  not  knowing, 
Or  me,  to  whom  thou  gav'st  it,  else  mistaking ; 
So  thy  great  gift,  upon  misprision  growing, 
Comes  home  again,  on  better  judgment  making. 

Thus  have  I  had  thee  as  a  dream  doth  flatter  j 
In  sleep,  a  king ;  but  waking,  no  such  matter. 

W.  Shakespeare 


XLIII 

THE  LIFE  WITHOUT  PASSION 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none, 
That  do  not  do  the  thing  they  most  do  show, 
Who,  moving  others,  are  themselves  as  stone, 
Unmoved,  cold,  and  to  temptation  slow, — 

They  rightly  do  inherit  heaven's  graces, 
And  husband  nature's  riches  from  expense  ; 
They  are  the  lords  and  owners  of  their  faces, 
Others,  but  stewards  of  their  excellence. 

The  summer's  flower  is  to  the  summer  sweet, 
Though  to  itself  it  only  live  and  die  ; 
But  if  that  flower  with  base  infection  meet, 
The  basest  weed  outbraves  his  dignity  : 

For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds  ; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds. 

IV.  Shakespeare 


XLIV 

THE  LOVEtfS  APPEAL 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  !  for  shame, 
To  save  thee  from  the  blame 
Of  all  my  grief  and  grame. 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  7 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 


FIRST  27 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  loved  thee  so  long 
In  wealth  and  woe  among  : 
And  is  thy  heart  so  strong 
As  for  to  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
That  hath  given  thee  my  heart 
Never  for  to  depart 
Neither  for  pain  nor  smart : 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus  ? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus, 
And  have  no  more  pity 
Of  him  that  loveth  thee  ? 
Alas  !  thy  cruelty  ! 
And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus? 
Say  nay  !  say  nay  ! 

Sir  T.    WycU 

XLV 

THE  NIGHTINGALE 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 

In  the  merry  month  of  May, 

Sitting  in  a  pleasant  shade 

Whkh  a  grove  of  myrtles  made, 

Beasts  did  leap  and  birds  did  sing, 

Trees  did  grow  and  plants  did  spring  | 

Every  thing  did  banish  moan 

Save  the  Nightingale  alone. 

She,  poor  bird,  as  all  forlorn, 

Lean'd  her  breast  up-till  a  thorn, 

And  there  sung  the  dolefull'st  ditty 

That  to  hear  it  was  great  pity. 

Fie,  fie,  fie,  now  would  she  cry ; 

Teru,  teru,  by  and  by  : 

Th  it  to  hear  her  so  complain 

Scarce  I  could  from  tears  refrain  ; 


28  BOOK 

For  her  griefs  so  lively  shown 

Made  me  think  upon  mine  own. 

— Ah,  thought  I,  thou  mourn'st  in  vain, 

None  takes  pity  on  thy  pain  : 

Senseless  trees,  they  cannot  hear  thee, 

Ruthless  beasts,  they  will  not  cheer  thee  : 

King  Pandion,  he  is  dead, 

All  thy  friends  are  lapp'd  in  lead  : 

All  thy  fellow  birds  do  sing 

Careless  of  thy  sorrowing  : 

Even  so,  poor  bird,  like  thee 

None  alive  will  pity  me. 

R.  Barnefield 


Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  sable  Night, 
Brother  to  Death,  in  silent  darkness  born, 
Relieve  my  languish,  and  restore  the  light ; 
With  dark  forgetting  of  my  care  return. 

And  let  the  day  be  time  enough  to  mourn 
The  shipwreck  of  my  ill-adventured  youth  : 
Let  waking  eyes  suffice  to  wail  their  scorn, 
Without  the  torment  of  the  night's  untruth. 

Cease,  dreams,  the  images  of  day-desires, 
To  model  forth  the  passions  of  the  morrow  ; 
Never  let  rising  Sun  approve  you  liars, 
To  add  more  grief  to  aggravate  my  sorrow  : 

Still  let  me  sleep,  embracing  clouds  in  vain, 
And  never  wake  to  feel  the  day's  disdain. 

S.   Daniel 


XLVII 

The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth 
Unto  her  rested  sense  a  perfect  waking, 

While  late-bare  earth,  proud  of  new  clothing,  springet  1i 
Sings  out  her  woes,  a  thorn  her  song-book  making  ; 


FIRST  29 

And  mournfully  bewailing, 
Her  throat  in  tunes  expresseth 
What  grief  her  breast  oppresseth 
For  Tereus'  force  on  her  chaste  will  prevailing. 

O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness, 
That  here  is  juster  cause  of  plaintful  sadness  : 
Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth  ; 
Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

Alas,  she  hath  no  other  cause  of  anguish 

But  Tereus'  love,  on  her  by  strong  hand  wroken, 
Wherein  she  suffering,  all  her  spirits  languish, 
Full  womanlike  complains  her  will  was  broken. 
But  I,  who,  daily  craving, 
Cannot  have  to  content  me, 
Have  more  cause  to  lament  me, 
Since  wanting  is  more  woe  than  too  much  having. 

O  Philomela  fair,  O  take  some  gladness 
That  here  is  juster  cause  of  plaintful  sadness  : 
Thine  earth  now  springs,  mine  fadeth  ; 
Thy  thorn  without,  my  thorn  my  heart  invadeth. 

Sir  P.   Sidney 


XLVIII 
FRUSTRA 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 
That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn, 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 
Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn  : 
But  my  kisses  bring  again, 

Bring  again — 
Seals  of  love,  but  seal'd  in  vain, 

Seal'd  in  vain  ! 

W.   Skakespeart 


30  BOOK 

XLIX 

LOVES  FAREWELL 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part, — 
Nay  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
That  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  ; 

Shake  hands  for  ever,  cancel  all  our  vows, 
And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 
That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now  at  the  last  gasp  of  love's  latest  breath, 
When  his  pulse  foiling,  passion  speechless  lies, 
When  faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 
And  innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 

— Now  if  thou  would'st,  when  all  have  given  him  over, 
From  death  to  life  thou  might'st  him  yet  recover  ! 

M.  Drayto? 


IN  IMAGINE  PERTRANSIT  HOMO 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  ! 

Though  thou  be  black  as  night 

And  she  made  all  of  light, 
fet  follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  ! 

Follow  her,  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth  ! 

Though  here  thou  liv'st  disgraced, 

And  she  in  heaven  is  placed, 
Vet  follow  her  whose  light  the  world  reviveth  ! 

Follow  those  pure  beams,  whose  beauty  burneth, 

That  so  have  scorched  thee 

As  thou  still  black  must  be 
Till  her  kind  beams  thy  black  to  brightness  turneth. 


FIRST  • 

Follow  her,  while  yet  her  glory  shineth  ! 

There  comes  a  luckless  night 

That  will  dim  all  her  light ; 
— And  this  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

Follow  still,  since  so  thy  fates  ordained  ! 

The  sun  must  have  his  shade, 

Till  both  at  once  do  fade, — 
The  sun  still  proved,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 

T.  Campion 


Li 
BLIND  LOVE 

O  nvf  !  what  eyes  hath  Love  put  in  my  head 
Which  have  no  correspondence  with  true  sight : 
Or  if  they  have,  where  is  my  judgment  fled 
That  censures  falsely  what  they  see  aright  ? 

If  that  be  fair  whereon  my  false  eyes  dote, 
What  means  the  world  to  say  it  is  not  so  ? 
If  it  be  not,  then  love  doth  well  denote 
Love's  eye  is  not  so  true  as  all  men's  :  No, 

How  can  it  ?  O  how  can  love's  eye  be  true, 
That  is  so  vex'd  with  watching  and  with  tears  ? 
No  marvel  then  though  I  mistake  my  view  : 
The  sun  itself  sees  not  till  heaven  clears. 

O  cunning  Love  !  with  tears  thou  keep'st  me  blind, 
Lest  eyes  well-seeing  thy  foul  faults  should  find  ! 

W.  Shakespeare 


Sleep,  angry  beauty,  sleep  and  fear  not  me  ! 

For  who  a  sleeping  lion  dares  provoke  ? 
It  shall  suffice  me  here  to  sit  and  see 

Those  lips  shut  up  that  never  kindly  spoke  : 
What  sight  can  more  content  a  lover's  mind 
Thar  beauty  seeming  harmless,  if  not  kind  ? 


32  -  BOOK 

My  words  have  charm'd  her,  for  secure  she  sleeps, 
Though  guilty  much  of  wrong  done  to  my  love  ; 

And  in  her  slumber,  see  !  she  close-eyed  weeps : 
Dreams  often  more  than  waking  passions  move. 

Plead,  Sleep,  my  cause,  and  make  her  soft  like  thee  : 

That  she  in  peace  may  wake  and  pity  me. 

T.  Campion 


LIU 
THE  UNFAITHFUL  SHEPHERDESS 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot 

Scorched  the  fruits  in  vale  and  mountain, 

Philon  the  shepherd,  late  forgot, 

Sitting  beside  a  crystal  fountain, 
In  shadow  of  a  green  oak  tree 
Upon  his  pipe  this  song  play'd  he  : 

Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 

Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love  ; 

Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

So  long  as  I  was  in  your  sight 
I  was  your  heart,  your  soul,  and  treasure  ; 
And  evermore  you  sobb'd  and  sigh'd 
Burning  in  flames  beyond  all  measure  : 

— Three  days  endured  your  love  to  me, 

And  it  was  lost  in  other  three  ! 
Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love ; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Another  Shepherd  you  did  see 

To  whom  your  heart  was  soon  enchained ; 

Full  soon  your  love  was  leapt  from  me, 

Full  soon  my  place  he  had  obtained. 
Soon  came  a  third,  your  love  to  win, 
And  we  were  out  and  he  was  in. 

Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 

Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love ; 

Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 


FIRST  33 

Sure  you  have  made  me  passing  glad 
That  you  your  mind  so  soon  removed, 
Before  that  I  the  leisure  had 
To  choose  you  for  my  best  beloved  : 

For  all  your  love  was  past  and  done 

Two  days  before  it  was  begun  : — 
Adieu,  Love,  adieu,  Love,  untrue  Love, 
Untrue  Love,  untrue  Love,  adieu,  Love ; 
Your  mind  is  light,  soon  lost  for  new  love. 

Anon. 


LIV 

ADVICE  TO  A  LOVER 

The  sea  hath  many  thousand  sands, 
The  sun  hath  motes  as  many ; 
The  sky  is  full  of  stars,  and  Love 
As  full  of  woes  as  any  : 
Believe  me,  that  do  know  the  elf, 
And  make  no  trial  by  thyself ! 

It  is  in  truth  a  pretty  toy 

For  babes  to  play  withal  : — 

But  O  !  the  honeys  of  our  youth 

Are  oft  our  age's  gall  ! 

Self-proof  in  time  will  make  thee  know 

He  was  a  prophet  told  thee  so  ; 

A  prophet  that,  Cassandra-like, 
Tells  truth  without  belief ; 
For  headstrong  Youth  will  run  his  race, 
Although  his  goal  be  grief : — 
Love's  Martyr,  when  his  heat  is  past, 
Prove's  Care's  Confessor  at  the  last. 

Anon. 


34  BOOK 


LV 

A  RENUNCIATION 

Thou  ait  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and  white, 
For  all  those  rosy  ornaments  in  thee, — 

Thou  art  not  sweet,  though  made  of  mere  delight, 
Nor  fair,  nor  sweet — unless  thou  pity  me  ! 

I  will  not  soothe  thy  fancies  ;  thou  shalt  prove 

That  beauty  is  no  beauty  without  love. 

— Yet  love  not  me,  nor  seek  not  to  allure 

My  thoughts  with  beauty,  were  it  more  divine : 

Thy  smiles  and  kisses  I  cannot  endure, 

I'll  not  be  wrapp'd  up  in  those  arms  of  thine  : 

— Now  show  it,  if  thou  be  a  woman  right — 

Embrace  and  kiss  and  love  me  in  despite  ! 

T.  Campion 

LVI 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 

As  man's  ingratitude  ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen 

Becausaithou  art  not  seen, 

Althougn  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly : 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 

As  benefits  forgot  : 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remember'd  not. 

Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly  : 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  : 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly. 

W.  Shakespeare 


FIRST  35 

LV1I 

A  SWEET  LULLABY 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul, 

Thy  father's  shame,  thy  mother's  grief, 

Born  as  I  doubt  to  all  our  dole, 

And  to  thy  self  unhappy  chief : 
Sing  Lullaby  and  lap  it  warm, 
Poor  soul  that  thinks  no  creature  harm. 

Thou  little  think'st  and  less  dost  know, 
The  cause  of  this  thy  mother's  moan, 
Thou  want'st  the  wit  to  wail  her  woe, 
And  I  myself  am  all  alone  : 

Why  dost  thou  weep  ?  why  dost  thou  wail  ? 

And  knowest  not  yet  what  thou  dost  ail. 

Come  little  wretch,  ah  silly  heart, 
Mine  only  joy,  what  can  I  more  ? 
If  there  be  any  wrong  thy  smart 
That  may  the  destinies  implore  : 
'Twas  I,  I  say,  against  my  will, 

I  wail  the  time,  but  be  thou  still. 

• 

And  dost  thou  smile,  oh  thy  sweet  face  ! 
Would  God  Himself  He  might  thee  see, 
No  doubt  thou  would'st  soon  purchase  grace, 
I  know  right  weH,  for  thee  and  me  : 

But  come  to  mother,  babe,  and  play, 

For  father  false  is  fled  away. 

Sweet  boy,  if  it  by  fortune  chance, 
Thy  father  home  again  to  send, 
If  death  do  strike  me  with  his  lance, 
Yet  mayst  thou  me  to  him  commend  : 
If  any  ask  thy  mother's  name, 
Tell  how  by  love  she  purchased  blame. 

Then  will  his  gentle  heart  soon  yield, 
I  know  him  of  a  noble  mind, 
Although  a  Lion  in  the  field. 

D   2 


30  BOOK 

A  Lamb  in  town  thou  shalt  him  find  : 
Ask  blessing,  babe,  be  not  afraid, 
His  sugar'd  words  hath  me  betray'd. 

Then  mayst  thou  joy  and  be  right  glad, 
Although  in  woe  I  seem  to  moan, 
Thy  father  is  no  rascal  lad, 
A  noble  youth  of  blood  and  bone  : 

His  glancing  looks,   if  he  once  smile, 
Right  honest  women  may  beguile. 

Come,  little  boy,  and  rock  asleep, 

Sing  lullaby  and  be  thou  still, 

I  that  can  do  nought  else  but  weep  ; 

Will  sit  by  thee  and  wail  my  fill  : 
God  bless  my  babe,  and  lullaby 
From  this  thy  father's  quality  ! 
Anon. 


LVIII 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  ' 
How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What,  may  it  be  that  e'en  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ! 

Sure,. if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks  ;  thy  languish'd  grace, 
To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 

Then,  e'en  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  loved,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  posseos  ? 
Do  they  call  virtue,  there,  ungratefulness  ? 

Sir  P.  Sidney 


FIRST  37 

LIX 

O  CRUDE  US  AMOR 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground, 

And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 

The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 

White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 

To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finish'd  love 

From  that  smooth  tongue  whose  music  hell  can  move  ; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 
Of  masques  and  revels  which  sweet  youth  did  make, 
Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  Knights, 
And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  : 
When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 
Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me  ! 

T.  Campion 

LX 

SEPHESTIA'S  SONG  TO  HER  CHILD 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee  ; 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

Mother's  wag,  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy  ; 

When  thy  father  first  did  see 

Such  a  boy  by  him  and  me, 

He  was  glad,  I  was  woe, 

Fortune  changed  made  him  so, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy 

Last  his  sorrow,  first  his  joy. 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old  there's  grief  enough  for  thee, 

Streaming  tears  that  never  stint, 

Like  pearl  drops  from  a  flint, 

Fell  by  course  from  his  eyes, 

That  one  another's  place  supplies  ; 

Thus  he  grieved  in  every  part, 

Tears  of  blood  fell  from  his  heart, 

When  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  jov. 


}8  BOOK 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

The  wanton  smiled,  father  wept, 

Mother  cried,  baby  leapt  ; 

More  he  crow'd,  more  we  cried, 

Nature  could  not  sorrow  hide  : 

He  must  go,  he  must  kiss 

Child  and  mother,  baby  bless, 

For  he  left  his  pretty  boy, 

Father's  sorrow,  father's  joy. 
Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee, 
When  thou  art  old,  there's  grief  enough  for  thee. 

R.  Greene 


LXI 

A  LAMENT 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife  ; 

I  do  detest  my  life, 

And  with  lamenting  cries 

Peace  to  my  soul  to  bring 

Oft  call  that  prince  which  here  doth  monarchize  : 

— But  he,  grim  grinning  King, 

Who  caitiffs  scorns,  and  doth  the  blest  surprize, 

Late  having  deck'd  with  beauty's  rose  his  tomb, 

Disdains  to  crop  a  weed,  and  will  not  come. 

IV.  Drummond 


LXI  I 
DIRGE  OF  LOVE 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 
And  in  sad  cypres  let  me  be  laid  ; 

Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath  ; 
I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 


FIRST  39 

My  shroud  of  white,  stuck  all  with  yew, 

O  prepare  it ! 
My  part  of  death,  no  one  so  true 

Did  share  it. 

Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet 
On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strown  ; 

Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 
My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown  • 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save, 

Lay  me,  O  where 

Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave, 
To  weep  there. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXIII 

TO  HIS  LUTE 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow 
With  thy  green  mother  in  some  shady  grove, 
When  immelodious  winds  but  made  thee  move, 
And  birds  their  ramage  did  on  thee  bestow. 

Since  that  dear  Voice  which  did  thy  sounds  approve, 
Which  wont  in  such  harmonious  strains  to  flow, 
Is  reft  from  Earth  to  tune  those  spheres  above, 
What  art  thou  but  a  harbinger  of  woe  ? 

Thy  pleasing  notes  be  pleasing  notes  no  more, 
But  orphans'  waitings  to  the  fainting  ear  ; 
Each  stroke  a  sigh,  each  sound  draws  forth  a  tear ; 
For  which  be  silent  as  in  woods  before  : 

Or  if  that  any  hand  to  touch  thee  deign, 
Like  widow'd  turtle,  still  her  loss  complain. 

W.  Drummond 


40  BOOK 

LXIV 

FIDELE 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  j 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 

Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke  ; 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat  ; 
To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak  ; 

The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this,  and  come  to  dust , 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning- flash 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 

Thou  hast  finish'd  joy  and  moan 

All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 

Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXV 

A  SEA  DIRGE 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies : 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made  ; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes  ; 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea- change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 
Hark  !  now  I  hear  them, — 
Ding,  dong,  bell, 

W.  Shakespearf 


FIRST  41 


LXVI 
A  LAND  DIRGE 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren, 

Since  o'er  shady  groves  they  hover 

And  with  leaves  and  flowers  do  cover 

The  friendless  bodies  of  unburied  men. 

Call  unto  his  funeral  dole 

The  ant,  the  field-mouse,  and  the  mole 

To  rear  him  hillocks  that  shall  keep  him  warm 

And  (when  gay  tombs  are  robb'd)  sustain  no  harm  ; 

But  keep  the  wolf  far  thence,  that's  foe  to  men, 

For  with  his  nails  he'll  dig  them  up  again. 

/.    Webster 


LXVII 

POST  MORTEM 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day 

When  that  churl  Death  my  bones  with  dust  shall  cover, 

And  shalt  by  fortune  once  more  re-survey 

These  poor  rude  lines  of  thy  deceased  lover ; 

Compare  them  with  the  bettering  of  the  time, 
And  though  they  be  outstripp'd  by  every  pen, 
Reserve  them  for  my  love,  not  for  their  rhyme 
Exceeded  by  the  height  of  happier  men. 

O  then  vouchsafe  me  but  this  loving  thought — 

4  Had  my  friend's  Muse  grown  with  this  growing  age, 

A  dearer  birth  than  this  his  love  had  brought, 

To  march  in  ranks  of  better  equipage  : 

But  since  he  died,  and  poets  better  prove, 
Theirs  for  their  style  I'll  read,  his  for  his  love.' 

W.  Shakespeare 


42  BOOK 


LXVIII 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  DEATH 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 
Than  you  shall  hear  the  surly  sullen  bell 
Give  warning  to  the  world,  that  I  am  fled 
From  this  vile  world,  with  vilest  worms  to  dwell ; 

Nay,  if  you  read  this  line,  remember  not 
The  hand  that  writ  it ;  for  I  love  you  so, 
That  I  in  your  sweet  thoughts  would  be  forgot 
If  thinking  on  me  then  should  make  you  woe. 

O  if,  I  say,  you  look  upon  this  verse 
When  I  perhaps  compounded  am  with  clay, 
Do  not  so  much  as  my  poor  name  rehearse, 
But  let  your  love  even  with  my  life  decay ; 

Lest  the  wise  world  should  look  into  your  moan, 
And  mock  you  with  me  after  I  am  gone. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXIX 

YOUNG  LOVE 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engender'd  in  the  eyes  ; 
With  gazing  fed  ;  and  Fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies  : 
Let  us  all  ring  Fancy's  knell ; 
I'll  begin  it, — Ding,  dong,  bell. 
— Ding,  dong,  bell. 

W.  Shakespeare 


FIRST  43 


LXX 

A  DILEMMA 

Lady,  when  I  behold  the  roses  sprouting 
Which  clad  in  damask  mantles  deck  the  arbours, 
And   then   behold  your   lips   where   sweet    love 

harbours, 

My  eyes  present  me  with  a  double  doubting  : 
For  viewing  both  alike,  hardly  my  mind  supposes 
Whether  the  roses  be  your  lips,  or  your  lips  the  roses. 

Anon. 


LXXI 

ROSALYN&S  MADRIGAL 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee, 

Doth  suck  his  sweet  ; 
Now  with  his  wings  he  plays  with  me, 

Now  with  his  feet. 
Within  mine  eyes  he  makes  his  nest, 
His  bed  amidst  my  tender  breast ; 
My  kisses  are  his  daily  feast, 
And  yet  he  robs  me  of  my  rest : 
Ah  !  wanton,  will  ye  ? 

And  if  I  sleep,  then  percheth  he 
With  pretty  flight, 
And  makes  his  pillow  of  my  knee 
The  livelong  night. 
Strike  I  my  lute,  he  tunes  the  string ; 
He  music  plays  if  so  I  sing  ; 
He  lends  me  every  lovely  thing, 
Yet  cruel  he  my  heart  doth  sting  : 
Whist,  wanton,  will  ye  ? 

Else  I  with  roses  every  day 

Will  whip  you  hence, 


44  BOOK 

A.nd  bind  you,  when  you  long  to  play, 

For  your  offence  ; 
I'll  shut  my  eyes  to  keep  you  in ; 
I'll  make  you  fast  it  for  your  sin  ; 
I'll  count  your  power  not  worth  a  pin  ; 
— Alas  !  what  hereby  shall  I  win, 

If  he  gainsay  me  ? 

What  if  I  beat  the  wanton  boy 

With  many  a  rod  ? 
He  will  repay  me  with  annoy, 

Because  a  god. 

Then  sit  thou  safely  on  my  knee, 
And  let  thy  bower  my  bosom  be  ; 
Lurk  in  mine  eyes,  I  like  of  thee, 
O  Cupid  !  so  thou  pity  me, 

Spare  not,  but  play  thee  ! 

T.  Lodge 


LXXII 

CUPID  AND  CAM  PASTE 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe  play'd 
At  cards  for  kisses  ;  Cupid  paid  : 
lie  stakes  his  quiver,  bow,  and  arrows, 
His  mother's  doves,  and  team  of  sparrows ; 
Loses  them  too  ;  then  down  he  throws 
The  coral  of  his  lip,  the  rose 
Growing  on;s  cheek  (but  none  knows  how) ; 
With  these,  the  crystal  of  his  brow, 
And  then  the  dimple  on  his  chin  ; 
All  these  did  my  Campaspe  win  : 
And  last  he  set  her  both  his  eyes- 
She  won,  and  Cupid  blind  did  rise. 

O  Love  !  has  she  done  this  to  thee  ? 

What  shall,  alas  !  become  of  me  ? 

/.  Lylye 


FIRST  45 


LXXIII 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow  ; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  ! 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow  ; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow  ; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-red-breast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ; 
And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 

Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow  I 
Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow  ' 
You  pretty  elves,  amongst  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow  ; 
To  give  my  Love  good  morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow  ! 

T.  Heywood 


LXXIV 

PKOTHALAMION 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  ah 

Sweet-breathing  Zephyrus  did  softly  play — 

A  gentle  spirit,  that  lightly  did  delay 

Hot  Titan^s  beams,  which  then  did  glister  fail  5 

When  I,  (whom  sullen  care, 

Through  discontent  of  my  long  fruitless  stay 

In  princes'  court,  and  expectation  vain 

Of  idle  hopes,  which  still  do  fly  away 

Like  empty  shadows,  did  afflict  my  brain) 

Walk'd  forth  to  ease  my  pain 


46  BOOK 

Along  the  shore  of  silver-streaming  Thames  ; 
Whose  rutty  bank,  the  which  his  river  hems, 
Was  painted  all  with  variable  flowers, 
And  all  the  meads  adorn'd  with  dainty  gems 
Fit  to  deck  maidens'  bowers, 
And  crown  their  paramours 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song, 

There  in  a  meadow  by  the  river's  side 
A  flock  of  nymphs  I  chanced  to  espy, 
All  lovely  daughters  of  the  flood  thereby, 
With  goodly  greenish  locks  all  loose  unlied 
As  each  had  been  a  bride  ; 
And  each  one  had  a  little  wicker  basket 
Made  of  fine  twigs,  entrailed  curiously. 
In  which  they  gather'd  flowers  to  fill  their  flasket, 
And  with  fine  ringers  cropt  full  feateously 
The  tender  stalks  on  high. 
Of  every  sort  which  in  that  meadow  grew 
They  gather'd  some  ;  the  violet,  pallid  blue 
The  little  daisy  that  at  evening  closes, 
The  virgin  lily  and  the  primrose  true, 
With  store  of  vermeil  roses, 
To  deck  their  bridegrooms'  posies 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  :  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

With  that  I  saw  two  Swans  of  goodly  hue 

Come  softly  swimming  down  along  the  Lee  ; 

Two  fairer  birds  I  yet  did  never  see  ; 

The  snow  which  doth  the  top  of  Pindus  strow 

Did  never  whiter  show, 

Nor  Jove  himself,  when  he  a  swan  would  be 

For  love  of  Leda,  whiter  did  appear  ; 

Yet  Leda  was  (they  say)  as  white  as  he, 

Yet  not  so  white  as  these,  nor  nothing  near  ; 

So  purely  white  they  were 

That  even  the  gentle  stream,  the  which  them  bare, 

Seem'd  foul  to  them,  and  bade  his  billows  spare 

To  wet  their  silken  feathers,  lest  they  might 

Soil  their  fair  plumes  with  water  not  so  fair, 


FIRST  47 

And  mar  their  beauties  bright 
That  shone  as  Heaven's  light 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Eftsoons  the  nymphs,  which  now  had  flowers  their  fill, 
Ran  all  in  haste  to  see  that  silver  brood 
As  they  came  floating  on  the  crystal  flood  ; 
Whom  when  they  saw,  they  stood  amazed  still 
Their  wondering  eyes  to  fill  ; 
Them  seem'd  they  never  saw  a  sight  so  fair 
Of  fowls,  so  lovely,  that  they  sure  did  deem 
Them  heavenly  born,  or  to  be  that  same  pair 
Which  through  the  sky  draw  Venus'  silver  team  ; 
For  sure  they  did  not  seem 
To  be  begot  of  any  earthly  seed, 
But  rather  Angels,  or  of  Angels'  breed  ; 
Yet  were  they  bred  of  summer's  heat,  they  say, 
In  sweetest  season,  when  each  flower  and  weed 
The  earth  did  fresh  array ; 
So  fresh  they  seem'd  as  day, 
Ev'n  as  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Then  forth  they  all  out  of  their  baskets  drew 
Great  store  of  flowers,  the  honour  of  the  field, 
That  to  the  sense  did  fragrant  odours  yield, 
All  which  upon  those  goodly  birds  they  threw 
And  all  the  waves  did  strew, 
That  like  old  Peneus'  waters  they  did  seem 
When  down  along  by  pleasant  Tempe's  shore 
Scatter'd  with  flowers,  through  Thessaly  they  stream, 
That  they  appear,  through  lilies'  plenteous  store, 
Like  a  bride's  chamber-floor. 

Two  of  those  nymphs  meanwhile  two  garlands  bound 
Of  freshest  flowers  which  in  that  mead  they  found, 
The  which  presenting  all  in  trim  array, 
Their  snowy  foreheads  therewithal  they  crown'd  ; 
Whilst  one  did  sing  this  lay 
Prepared  against  that  day, 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  was  not  long : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 


48  BOOK 

1  Ye  gentle  birds  !  the  world's  fair  ornament, 

And  Heaven's  gloryr  whom  this  happy  hour 

Doth  lead  unto  your  lovers'  blissful  bower, 

Joy  may  you  have,  and  gentle  heart's  content 

Of  your  love's  couplement ; 

And  let  fair  Venus,  that  is  queen  of  love, 

With  her  heart-quelling  son  upon  you  smile, 

Whose  smile,  they  say,  hath  virtue  to  remove 

All  love's  dislike,  and  friendship's  faulty  guile 

For  ever  to  assoil. 

Let  endless  peace  your  steadfast  hearts  accord, 

And  blessed  plenty  wait  upon  your  board ; 

And  let  your  bed  with  pleasures  chaste  abound, 

That  fruitful  issue  may  to  you  afford 

Which  may  your  foes  confound, 

And  make  your  joys  redound 

Upon  your  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long  : 

Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song.5 

So  ended  she  ;  and  all  the  rest  around 
To  her  redoubled  that  her  undersong, 
Which  said  their  bridal  day  should  not  be  long  : 
And  gentle  Echo  from  the  neighbour  ground 
Their  accents  did  resound. 
ISo  forth  those  joyous  birds  did  pass  along 
Adown  the  Lee  that  to  them  murmur'd  low, 
As  he  would  speak  but  that  he  lack'd  a  tongue ; 
Yet  did  by  signs  his  glad  affection  show, 
Making  his  stream  run  slow. 
And  all  the  fowl  which  in  his  flood  did  dwell 
'Gan  flock  about  these  twain,  that  did  excel 
The  rest,  so  far  as  Cynthia  doth  shend 
The  lesser  stars.     So  they,  enranged  well, 
Did  on  those  two  attend, 
And  their  best  service  lend 

Against  their  wedding  day,  which  was  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

At  length  they  all  to  merry  London  came, 
To  merry  London,  my  most  kindly  nurse, 
That  to  me  gave  this  life's  first  native  source, 
Though  from  another  place  I  take  my  name, 


FIRST  49 

An  house  of  ancient  fame  : 

There  when  they  came  whereas  those  bricky  towers 
The  which  on  Thames'  broad  aged  back  do  ride, 
Where  now  the  studious  lawyers  have  their  bowers, 
There  whilome  wont  the  Templar-knights  to  bide, 
Till  they  decay'd  through  pride  ; 
Next  whereunto  there  stands  a  stately  place, 
Where  oft  I  gained  gifts  and  goodly  grace 
Of  that  great  lord,  which  therein  wont  to  dwell, 
Whose  want  too  well  now  feels  my  friendless  case  -, 
But  ah  !  here  fits  not  well 
Old  woes,  but  joys  to  tell 
Against  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

Yet  therein  now  doth  lodge  a  noble  peer. 

Great  England's  glory  and  the  world's  wide  wonder, 

Whose   dreadful    name   late   through   all   Spain   did 

thunder, 

And  Hercules'  two  pillars  standing  near 
Did  make  to  quake  and  fear  : 
Fair  branch  of  honour,  flower  of  chivalry  ! 
That  fillest  England  with  thy  triumphs'  fame 
Joy  have  thou  of  thy  noble  victory, 
And  endless  happiness  of  thine  own  name 
That  promiseth  the  same  ; 
That  through  thy  prowess  and  victorious  arms 
Thy  country  may  be  freed  from  foreign  harms, 
And  great  Elisa's  glorious  name  may  ring 
Through  all  the  world,  fill'd  with  thy  wide  alarms, 
Which  some  brave  Muse  may  sing 
To  ages  following : 
Upon  the  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long  : 

Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

From  those  high  towers  this  noble  lord  issuing 
Like  radiant  Hesper,  when  his  golden  hair 
In  th'  ocean  billows  he  hath  bathed  fair, 
Descended  to  the  river's  open  viewing 
With  a  great  train  ensuing. 
Above  the  rest  were  goodly  to  be  seen 
Two  gentle  knights  of  lovely  face  and  feature, 
£ 


50  BOOK 

Beseeming  well  the  bower  of  any  queen, 
With  gifts  of  wit  and  ornaments  of  nature, 
Fit  for  so  goodly  stature, 

That  like  the  twins  of  Jove  they  seem'd  in  sight 
Which  deck  the  baldric  of  the  Heavens  bright ; 
They  two,  forth  pacing  to  the  river's  side, 
Received  those  two  fair  brides,  their  love's  delight ; 
Which,  at  th'  appointed  tide, 
Each  one  did  make  his  bride 
Against  their  bridal  day,  which  is  not  long  : 
Sweet  Thames  !  run  softly,  till  I  end  my  song. 

E.  Spenser 


LXXV 

THE  HAPPY  HEART 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers  ? 

O  sweet  content ! 
Art  thou  rich,  yet' is  thy  mind  perplex'd? 

O  punishment ! 

Dost  thou  laugh  to  see  how  fools  are  vex'd 
To  add  to  golden  numbers,  golden  numbers  ? 
O  sweet  content  !  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content  \ 

Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace ; 

Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

Canst  drink  the  waters  of  the  crisped  spring  ? 

O  sweet  content  ! 

Swimm'st  thou  in  wealth,  yet  sink'st  in   thine  owe 
tears  ? 

O  punishment ! 

Then  he  that  patiently  want's  burden  bears 
No  burden  bears,  but  is  a  king,  a  king  ! 
O  sweet  content  !  O  sweet,  O  sweet  content ! 
Work  apace,  apace,  apace,  apace  ; 
Honest  labour  bears  a  lovely  face  ; 
Then  hey  nonny  nonny,  hey  nonny  nonny  ! 

T.  Dekke* 


FIRST  51 


LXXVI 

SIC  TRANSI7 

Come,  cneerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to  me  ; 

For  while  thou  view'st  me  with  thy  fading  light 
Part  of  my  life  doth  still  depart  with  thee, 

And  I  still  onward  haste  to  my  last  night : 
Time's  fatal  wings  do  ever  forward  fly — 
So  every  day  we  live  a  day  we  die. 

But  O  ye  nights,  ordain'd  for  barren  rest, 
How  are  my  days  deprived  of  life  in  you 

When  heavy  sleep  my  soul  hath  dispossest, 
By  feigned  death  life  sweetly  to  renew  ! 

Part  of  my  life,  in  that,  you  life  deny  : 

So  every  day  we  live,  a  day  we  die. 

T.   Campion 


LXXVII 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair, 

is  like  a  bubble  blown  up  in  the  air 

By  sporting  children's  breath, 

Who  chase  it  everywhere 

And  strive  who  can  most  motion  it  bequeath. 

And  though  it  sometimes  seem  of  its  own  might 

Like  to  an  eye  of  gold  to  be  fix'd  there, 

And  firm  to  hover  in  that  empty  height, 

That  cnly  is  because  it  is  so  light. 

— But  in  that  pomp  it  doth  not  long  appear  ; 

For  when  'tis  most  admired,  in  a  thought, 

Because  it  e*rst  was  nought,  it  turns  to  nought. 

IV.  Drummona 


B  a 


52  BOOK 

LXXVIII 

SOUL  AND  BODY 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth, 
[Foil'd  by]  those  rebel  powers  that  thee  array. 
Why  doth  thou  pine  within,  and  suffer  dearth, 
Painting  thy  outward  walls  so  costly  gay  ? 

Why  so  large  cost,  having  so  short  a  lease, 
Dost  thou  upon  thy  fading  mansion  spend  ? 
Shall  worms,  inheritors  of  this  excess, 
Eat  up  thy  charge  ?  is  this  thy  body's  end  ? 

Then,  Soul,  live  thou  upon  thy  servant's  loss, 
And  let  that  pine  to  aggravate  thy  store  ; 
Buy  terms  divine  in  selling  hours  of  dross  ; 
Within  be  fed,  without  be  rich  no  more  : — 

So  shalt  thou  feed  on  death,  that  feeds  on  men, 
And  death  once  dead,  there's  no  more  dying  then. 

W.  Shakespeare 


LXXIX 

The  mar.  of  life  upright, 
Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 

From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity  ; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 

Whom  hopes  cannot  delude    « 
Nor  sorrow  discontent : 

That  man  needs  neither  towers 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 

Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence : 


FIRST  52 

He  only  can  behold 

With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 

And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus  scorning  all  the  cares 

That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 
He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 

His  wisdom  heavenly  things  ; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 

His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 
The  earth  his  sober  inn 

And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

T.  Campion 


LXXX 
THE  LESSONS  OF  NATURE 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name 
If  we  the  sheets  and  leaves  could  turn  with  care, 
Of  Him  who  it  corrects,  and  did  it. frame, 
We  clear  might  read  the  art  and  wisdom  rare : 

Find  out  His  power  which  wildest  powers  doth  tame, 

His  providence  extending  everywhere, 

His  justice  which  proud  rebels  doth  not  spare, 

In  every  page,  no  period  of  the  same. 

But  silly  we,  like  foolish  children,  rest 
Well  pleased  with  colour'd  vellum,  leaves  of  gold, 
Fair  dangling  ribbands,  leaving  what  is  best, 
On  the  great  Writer's  sense  ne'er  taking  hold  ; 

Or  if  by  chance  we  stay  our  minds  on  aught, 
It  is  some  picture  on  the  margin  wrought. 

*V.  Drummond 


54  BOOK 


LXXXI 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move  ? 
Is  this  the  justice  which  on  earth  we  find  ? 
Is  this  that  firm  decree  which  all  doth  bind  ? 
Are  these  your  influences,  Powers  above  ? 

Those  souls  which  vice's  moody  mists  most  blind, 
Blind  Fortune,  blindly,  most  their  friend  doth  prove  ; 
And  they  who  thee,  poor  idol  Virtue  !  love, 
Ply  like  a  feather  toss'd  by  storm  and  wind. 

Ah  !  if  a  Providence  doth  sway  this  all 
Why  should  best  minds  groan  under  most  distress  ? 
Or  why  should  pride  humility  make  thrall, 
And  injuries  the  innocent  oppress  ? 

Heavens  !  hinder,  stop  this  fate  ;  or  grant  a  time 
When  good  may  have,  as  well  as  bad,  their  prime! 

W.  Drummond 


LXXXII 

THE  WORLD'S  WAY 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry — 
As,  to  behold  desert  a  beggar  born, 
And  needy  nothing  trimm'd  in  jollily, 
And  purest  faith  unhappily  forsworn, 

And  gilded  honour  shamefully  misplaced, 
And  maiden  virtue  rudely  strumpeted, 
And  i  ight  perfection  wrongfully  disgraced, 
And  strength  by  limping  sway  disabled, 

And  art  made  tongue-tied  by  authority, 
And  folly,  doctor-like,  controlling  skill,   •» 
And  simple  truth  miscall'd  simplicity, 
And  captive  Good  attending  captain  111  -. — 

—  Tired  with  all  these,  from  these  would  I  be  gone, 
Save  that,  to  die,  I  leave  my  Love  alone. 

W.  Shakespeare 


FIRST  55 


LXXXHI 
A   WISH 

Happy  were  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate 
In  some  unhaunted  desert,  where,  obscure 
From  all  society,  from  love  and  hate 
Of  worldly  folk,  there  should  he  sleep  secure  ; 

Then  wake  again,  and  yield  God  ever  praise  ; 
Content  with  hip,  with  haws,  and  brambleberry ; 
In  contemplation  passing  still  his  days, 
And  change  of  holy  thoughts  to  make  him  merry  : 

Who,  when  he  dies,  his  tomb  might  be  the  bush 
Where  harmless  robin  resteth  with  the  thrush  : 
— Happy  were  he  ! 

X.  Devereux,  Earl  of  Essex 


LXXX1V 

SAINT  JOHN  BAPTIST 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King 
Girt  with  rough  skins,  hies  to  the  deserts  wild, 
Among  that  savage  brood  the  woods  forth  bring, 
Which  he  more  harmless  found  than  man,  and  mild. 

His  food  was  locusts,  and  what  there  doth  spring, 
With  honey  that  from  virgin  hives  distill' d  ; 
Parch'd  body,  hollow  eyes,  some  uncouth  thing 
Made  him  appear,  long  since  from  earth  exiled. 

There  burst  he  forth  :  All  ye  whose  hopes  rely 

On  God,  with  me  amidst  these  deserts  mourn,  -> 

Repent,  repent,  and  from  old  errors  turn  ! 

— Who  listen'd  to  his  voice,  obey'd  his  cry  ? 

Only  the  echoes,  which  he  made  relent, 

Rung  from  their  flinty  caves,  Repent  !  Repent^! 

"   W.  Drummond 


(Solbm 


ODE  ON  THE  MORNING  OF  CHRISTS 
NATIVITY 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn 

Wherein  the  Son  of  Heaven's  Eternal  King 

Of  wedded  maid  and  virgin  mother  born, 

Our  great  redemption  from  above  did  bring ; 

For  so  the  holy  sages  once  did  sing 

That  He  our  deadly  forfeit  should  release, 

And  with  His  Father  work  us  a  perpetual  peace. 

That  glorious  Form,  that  Light  unsufferable, 

And  that  far-beaming  blaze  of  Majesty 

Wherewith  He  wont  at  Heaven's  high  council-table 

To  sit  the  midst  of  Trinal  Unity, 

He  laid  aside  ;  and,  here  with  us  to  be, 

Forsook  the  courts  of  everlasting  day, 

And  chose  with  us  a  darksome  house  of  mortal  clay. 

Say,  heavenly  Muse,  shall  not  thy  sacred  vein 
Afford  a  present  to  the  Infant  God  ? 
Hast  thou  no  verse,  no  hymn,  or  solemn  strdn 
To  welcome  Him  to  this  His  new  abode, 
Now  while  the  heaven,  by  the  sun's  team  untrod, 
Hath  took  no  print  of  the  approaching  light, 
And  all  the  spangled  host  keep  watch  in  squadrons 
bright  ? 


BOOK  SECOND  57 

See  how  from  far,  upon  the  eastern  road, 

The  star-led  wizards  haste  with  odours  sweet  °. 

O  run,  prevent  them  with  thy  humble  ode 

And  lay  it  lowly  at  His  blessed  feet  ; 

Have  thou  the  honour  first  thy  Lord  to  greet, 

And  join  thy  voice  unto  the  Angel  quire 

From  out  His  secret  altar  touch'd  with  hallow'd  fire 


THE  HYMN 

It  was  the  winter  wild 

While  the  heaven-born  Child 

All  meanly  wrapt  in  the  rude  manger  lies  ; 

Nature  in  awe  to  Him 

Had  doff 'd  her  gaudy  trim, 

With  her  great  Master  so  to  sympathize  : 

It  was  no  season  then  for  her 

To  wanton  with  the  sun,  her  lusty  paramour. 

Only  with  speeches  fair 

She  woos  the  gentle  air 

To  hide  her  guilty  front  with  innocent  snow ; 

And  on  her  naked  shame, 

Pollute  with  sinful  blame, 

The  saintly  veil  of  maiden  white  to  throw  ; 

Confounded,  that  her  Maker's  eyes 

Should  look  so  near  upon  her  foul  deformities 

But  He,  her  fears  to  cease, 

Sent  down  the  meek-eyed  Peace  ; 

She,  crown'd  with  olive  green,  came  softly  sliding 

Down  through  the  turning  sphere, 

His  ready  harbinger, 

With  turtle  wing  the  amorous  clouds  dividing  : 

And  waving  wide  her  myrtle  wand, 

She  strikes*  a  universal  peace  through  sea  and  land 

No  war,  or  battle's  sound 

Was  heard  the  world  around  : 

The  idle  spear  and  shield  were  high  uphung  ; 

The  hooked  chariot  stood 


58  BOOK 

Unstain'd  with  hostile  blood  ; 

The  trumpet  spake  not  to  the  armed  throng  *, 

And  kings  sat  still  with  awful  eye, 

As  if  they  surely  knew  their  sovran  Lord  was  by. 

But  peaceful  was  the  night 

Wherein  the  Prince  of  Light 

His  reign  of  peace  upon  the  earth  began  : 

The  winds,  with  wonder  whist, 

Smoothly  the  waters  kist 

Whispering  new  joys  to  the  mild  ocean — 

Who  now  hath  quite  forgot  to  rave, 

While  birds  of  calm  sit  brooding  on  the  charmed  wave, 

The  stars,  with  deep  amaze, 

Stand  fix'd  in  steadfast  gaze, 

Bending  one  way  theii  precious  influence  ; 

And  will  not  take  their  flight 

For  all  the  morning  light, 

Or  Lucifer  that  often  warn'd  them  thence  ; 

But  in  their  glimmering  orbs  did  glow 

Until  their  Lord  Himself  bespake,  and  bid  them  go. 

And  though  the  shady  gloom 

Had  given  day  her  room, 

The  sun  himself  withheld  his  wonted  speed, 

And  hid  his  head  for  shame, 

As  his  inferior  flame 

The  new-enlighten'd  world  no  more  should  need  ; 

He  saw  a  greater  Sun  appear 

Than  his  bright  throne,  or  burning  axletree  could  bear. 

The  shepherds  on  the  lawn 

Or  ere  the  point  of  dawn 

Sate  simply  chatting  in  a  rustic  row ; 

Full  little  thought  they  than 

That  the  mighty  Pan 

Was  kindly  come  to  live  with  them  below  ; 

Perhaps  their  loves,  or  else  their  sheep 

Was  all  that  did  their  silly  thoughts  so  busy  keep  :— <• 

When  such  music  sweet 
Their  hearts  and  ears  did  greet 


SECOND  59 

As  never  was  by  mortal  finger  strook — 
Divinely-warbled  voice 
Answering  the  stringed  noise, 
As  all  their  souls  in  blissful  rapture  took  : 
The  air,  such  pleasure  loth  to  lose, 
With  thousand  echoes  still  prolongs  each  heavenly 
close. 

Nature,  that  heard  such  sound 

Beneath  the  hollow  round 

Of  Cynthia's  seat  the  airy  region  thrilling, 

Now  was  almost  won 

To  think  her  part  was  done, 

And  that  her  reign  had  here  its  last  fulfilling  ; 

She  knew  such  harmony  alone 

Could  hold  all  Heaven  and  Earth  in  happier  union. 

At  last  surrounds  their  sight 

A  globe  of  circular  light 

That  with  long  beams  the  shamefaced  night  array'd  ; 

The  helmed  Cherubim 

And  sworde.d  Seraphim 

Are  seen  in  glittering  ranks  with  wings  display'd, 

Harping  in  loud  and  solemn  quire 

With  unexpressive  notes,  to  Heaven's  new-born  Heir 

Such  music  (as  'tis  said) 

Before  was  never  made 

But  when  of  old  the  Sons  of  Morning  sung, 

While  the  Creator  great 

His  constellations  set 

And  the  well-balanced  world  on  hinges  hung  ; 

And  cast  the  dark  foundations  deep, 

And  bid  the  weltering  waves  their  oozy  channel  keep 

Ring  out,  ye  crystal  spheres  ! 

Once  bless  our  human  ears, 

If  ye  have  power  to  touch  our  senses  so  ; 

And  let  your  silver  chime 

Move  in  melodious  time  ; 

And  let  the  bass  of  heaven's  deep  organ  blow  ;  • 

And  with  your  ninefold  harmony 

Make  up  full  consort  to  the  angelic  symphony. 


60  BOOK 

For  if  such  hoiy  ^cng 

Enwrap  our  fancy  Jong, 

Time  will  run  back,  and  fetch  the  age  of  gold  ; 

And  speckled  Vanity 

Will  sicken  soon  and  die, 

And  leprous  Sin  will  melt  from  earthly  mould ; 

And  Hell  itself  will  pass  away, 

And  leave  her  d  Porous  mansions  to  the  peering  day, 

Yea,  Truth  and  Justice  then 

Will  down  return  to  men, 

Orb'd  in  a  rainbow  ;  and,  like  glories  wearing, 

Mercy  will  sit  between 

Throned  in  celestial  sheen, 

With  radiant  feet  the  tissued  clouds  down  steering  ; 

And  Heaven,  as  at  some  festival, 

Will  open  wide  the  gates  of  her  high  palace-hall. 

But  wisest  Fate  says  No  ; 

This  must  not  yet  be  so  ; 

The  Babe  yet  lies  in  smiling  infancy 

That  on  the  bitter  cross 

Must  redeem  our  loss  ; 

So  both  Himself  and  us  to  glorify  : 

Yet  first,  to  those  ychain'd  in  sleep 

The   wakeful  trump  of  doom  must  thundei  through 

the  deep ; 

With  such  a  horrid  clang 
As  on  Mount  Sinai  rang 

While  the  red  fire  and  smouldering  clouds  outbrake  : 
The  aged  Earth  aghast 
With  terror  of  that  blast 
Shall  from  the  surface  to  the  centre  shake, 
When,  at  the  world's  last  session, 
The  dreadful  Judge  in  middle  air  shall   spread  His 

throne. 

And  then  at  last  our  bliss 

Full  and  perfect  is, 

But  now  begins  ;  for  from  this  happy  day 

The  old  Dragon  under  ground, 

In  straiter  limits  bound, 

Not  half  so  far  casts  his  usurped  sway  ; 


SECOND  61 

And,  wroth  to  see  his  kingdom  fail. 
Swinges  the  scaly  horror  of  his  folded  tail. 

The  Oracles  are  dumb  ; 

No  voice  or  hideous  hum 

Runs  through  the  arched  roof  in  words  deceiving. 

Apollo  from  his  shrine 

Can  no  more  divine, 

With  hollow  shriek  the  steep  of  Delphos  leaving  : 

No  nightly  trance  or  breathed  spell 

Inspires  the  pale-eyed  priest  from  the  prophetic  cell. 

The  lonely  mountains  o'er 
And  the  resounding  shore-** 
A  voice  of  weeping  heard,  and  loud  lament ; 
From  haunted  spring  and  dale  » 

Edged  with  poplar  pale 
The  parting  Genius  is  with  sighing  sent ; 
With  flower-inwoven  tresses  torn 
The  Nymphs  in  twilight  shade  of   tangled    thickets 
mourn. 

In  consecrated  earth 

And  on  the  holy  hearth 

The  Lars  and  Lemures  moan  with  midnight  plaint ; 

In  urns,  and  altars  round 

A  drear  and  dying  sound 

Affrights  the  Flamens  at  their  service  quaint  ; 

And  the  chill  marble  seems  to  sweat, 

While  each  peculiar  Power  foregoes  his  wonted  seat. 

Peor  and  Baalim 
Forsake  their  temples  dim, 
With  that  twice-batter'd  god  of  Palestine  ; 
And  mooned  Ashtaroth 
Heaven's  queen  and  mother  both, 
Now  sits  not  girt  with  tapers'  holy  shine  ; 
The  Lybic  Hammon  shrinks  his  horn  : 
In  vain  the  Tyrian  maids  their  wounded  Thammu? 
mourn. 

And  sullen  Moloch,  fled, 

I  lath  left  in  shadows  dread 

His  burning  idol  all  of  blackest  hue  ; 


62  BOOK 

In  vain  with  cymbals'  ring 

They  call  the  grisly  king, 

In  dismal  dance  about  the  furnace  blue  ; 

The  brutish  gods  of  Nile  as  fast, 

Isis,  and  Orus,  and  the  dog  Anubis,  haste 

Nor  is  Osiris  seen 

In  Memphian  grove,  or  green, 

Trampling  the  unshower'd  grass  with  lowings  loud  : 

Nor  can  he  be  at  rest 

Within  his  sacred  chest ; 

Nought  but  profoundest  Hell  can  be  his  shroud  • 

In  vain  with  timbrell'd  anthems  dark 

The  sable-stoled  sorcerers  bear  his  worshipt  ark. 

He  feels  from  Juda's  land 

The  dreaded  Infant's  hand  ; 

The  rays  of  Bethlehem  blind  his  dusky  eyn  ; 

Nor  all  the  gods  beside 

Longer  dare  abide, 

Not  Typhon  huge  ending  in  snaky  twine : 

Our  Babe,  to  show  His  Godhead  true, 

Can  in  His  swaddling  bands  control  the  damned  crew. 

So,  when  the  sun  in  bed 
Curtain'd  with  cloudy  red 
Pillows  his  chin  upon  an  orient  wave, 
The  flocking  shadows  pale 
Troop  to  the  infernal  jail, 
Each  fetter'd  ghost  slips  to  his  several  grave  ; 
And  the  yellow-skirted  fays 

Fly  after  the  night-steeds,  leaving  their  moon,  loved 
maze. 

But  see  !  the  Virgin  blest 

Hath  laid  her  Babe  to  rest  ; 

Time  is,  our  tedious  song  should  here  have  ending  : 

Heaven's  youngest-teemed  star 

Hath  fix'd  her  polish'd  car, 

Her  sleeping  Lord  with  hand-maid  lamp  attending : 

And  all  about  the  courtly  stable 

Bright-harness'd  Angels  sit  in  order  serviceable. 

/.  Milton 


SECOND  63 

LXXXVI 

SONG  FOR  ST.   CECILIA'S  DAY,  1687 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 
When  Nature  underneath  a  heap 

Of  jarring  atoms  lay 
And  could  not  heave  her  head, 
The  tuneful  voice  was  heard  from  high, 

Arise,  ye  more  than  dead  ! 
Then  cold  and  hot  and  moist  and  dry 
In  order  to  their  stations  leap, 

And  Music's  power  obey. 
From  harmony,  from  heavenly  harmony 

This  universal  frame  began  : 

From  harmony  to  harmony 
Through  all  the  compass  of  the  notes  it  ran, 
The  diapason  closing  full  in  Man. 

What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

When  Jubal  struck  the  chorded  shell 
His  listening  brethren  stood  around, 
And,  wondering,  on  their  faces  fell 
To  worship  that  celestial  sound. 
Less  than  a  god  they  thought  there  could  not  dwel" 
Within  the  hollow  of  that  shell 
That  spoke  so  sweetly  and  so  well. 
What  passion  cannot  Music  raise  and  quell  ? 

The  trumpet's  loud  clangor 

Excites  us  to  arms, 
With  shrill  notes  of  anger 

And  mortal  alarms. 
The  double  double  double  beat 

Of  the  thundering  drum 

Cries  *  Hark  !  the  foes  come  ; 
Charge,  charge,  'tis  too  late  to  retreat ! ' 

The  soft  complaining  flute 
In  dying  notes  discovers 


64  BOOK 

The  woes  of  hopeless  lovers, 
Whose  dirge  is  whisper'd  by  the  warbling  lute. 

Sharp  violins  proclaim 
Their  jealous  pangs  and  desperation, 
Fury,  frantic  indignation, 
Depth  of  pains,  and  height  of  passion 

For  the  fair  disdainful  dame. 

But  oh  !  what  art  can  teach, 
What  human  voice  can  reach 

The  sacred  organ's  praise  ? 
Notes  inspiring  holy  love, 
Notes  that  wing  their  heavenly  ways 

To  mend  the  choirs  above. 

Orpheus  could  lead  the  savage  race, 
And  trees  unrooted  left  their  place 

Sequacious  of  the  lyre  : 
But  bright  Cecilia  raised  the  wonder  higher  : 
When  to  her  Organ  vocal  breath  was  given 
An  Angel  heard,  and  straight  appear'd — 

Mistaking  Earth  for  Heaven. 

Grand  Chorus 

As  from  the  power  of  sacred  lays 

The  spheres  began  to  move, 
And  sung  the  great  Creator's  praise 

To  all  the  blest  above  ; 
So  when  the  last  and  dreadful  hour 
This  crumbling  pageant  shall  devour, 
The  trumpet  shall  be  heard  on  high, 
The  dead  shall  live,  the  living  die, 
And  Music  shall  untune  the  sky. 

J.   Dryden 

LXXXVII 

ON  THE  LATE  MASSACRE  IN  PIEDMONT 

Avenge,  O  Lord  !  Thy  slaughter'd  saints,  whose  bones 
Lie  scatter'd  on  the  Alpine  mountains  cold  ; 
Even  them  who  kept  Thy  truth  so  pure  of  old 
When  all  our  fathers  worshipt  stocks  and  stones, 


SECOND  .  65 

Forget  not :  In  Thy  book  record  their  groans 
Who  were  Thy  sheep,  and  in  their  ancient  fold 
Slain  by  the  bloody  Piemontese,  that  roll'd 
Mother  with  infant  down  the  rocks.     Their  moans 

The  vales  redoubled  to  the  hills,  and  they 

To  Heaven.     Their  martyr'd  blood  and  ashes  sow 

O'er  all  the  Italian  fields,  where  still  doth  sway 

The  triple  Tyrant  :  that  from  these  may  grow 
A  hundred-fold,  who,  having  learnt  Thy  way, 
Early  may  fly  the  Babylonian  woe. 

/.   Milton 


HO  R  ATI  AN  ODE  UPON  CROMWELL'S 
RETURN  FROM  IRELAND 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear, 
Must  now  forsake  his  Muses  dear, 

Nor  in  the  shadows  sing 

His  numbers  languishing. 

}Tis  time  to  leave  the  books  in  dust, 
And  oil  the  unused  armour's  rust, 

Removing  from  the  wall 

The  corslet  of  the  hall. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

But  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star  : 

And  like  the  three-fork'd  lightning,  first 
Breaking  the  clouds  where  it  was  nur-st, 

Did  thorough  his  own  Side 

His  fiery  way  divide  : 

For  'tis  all  one  to  courage  high, 
The  emulous,  or  enemy  ; 

And  with  such,  to  enclose 

Is  more  than  to  oppose  ; 
F 


66  BOOK 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 
And  palaces  and  temples  rent ; 
And  Caesar's  head  at  last 
Did  through  his  laurels  blast. 

'Tis  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  heaven's  flame  ; 
And  if  we  would  speak  true, 
Much  to  the  Man  is  due 

Who,  from  his  private  gardens,  where 
He  lived  reserved  and  austere, 
(As  if  his  highest  plot 
To  plant  the  bergamot,) 

Could  by  industrious  valour  climb 
To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time, 

And  cast  the  Kingdoms  old 

Into  another  mould  ; 

Though  Justice  against  Fate  complain, 
And  plead  the  ancient  Rights  in  vain — 
But  those  do  hold  or  break 
As  men  are  strong  or  weak  ; 

Nature,  that  hateth  emptiness, 

Allows  of  penetration  less, 

And  therefore  must  make  room 
Where  greater  spirits  come. 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  war 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scar  ? 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art, 

Where,  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope, 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 
To  Carisbrook's  narrow  case, 

That  thence  the  Royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn  : 
While  round  the  armed  bands 
Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 


SECOND  67 

He  nothing  common  did  or  mean 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  with  his  keener  eye 

The  axe's  edge  did  try  ; 

Nor  call'd  the  Gods,  with  vulgar  spite, 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right ; 

But  bow'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

— This  was  that  memorable  hour 
Which  first  assured  the  forced  power : 

So  when  they  did  design 

The  Capitol's  first  line, 

A  Bleeding  Head,  where  they  begun, 
Did  fright  the  architects  to  run  ; 

And  yet  in  that  the  State    , 

Foresaw  its  happy  fate  ! 

And  now  the  Irish  are  ashamed 

To  see  themselves  in  one  year  tamed  : 

So  much  one  man  can  do 

That  does  both  act  and  know. 

They  can  affirm  his  praises  best, 
And  have,  though  overcome,  confest 

How  good  he  is,  how  just 

And  fit  for  highest  trust. 

Nor  yet  grown  stiffer  with  command, 
But  still  in  the  Republic's  hand — 

How  fit  he  is  to  sway 

That  can  so  well  obey  ! 

He  to  the  Commons'  feet  presents 
A  Kingdom  for  his  first  year's  rents, 

And  (what  he  may)  forbears 

His  fame,  to  make  it  theirs  : 

And  has  his  sword  and  spoils  ungirl 
To  lay  them  at  the  Public's  skirt. 

So  when  the  falcon  high 

Falls  heavy  from  the  sky, 
F  2 


66  BOOK 

She,  having  kill'd,  no  more  doth  search 
But  on  the  next  green  bough  to  perch, 

Where,  when  he  first  does  lure, 

The  falconer  has  her  sure. 

—What  may  not  then  our  Isle  presume 
While  victory  his  crest  does  plume  ? 
What  may  not  others  fear 
If  thus  he  crowns  each  year  ? 

As  Caesar  he,  ere  long,  to  Gaul, 
To  Italy  an  Hannibal, 

And  to  all  States  not  free 

Shall  climacteric  be. 

The  Pict  no  shelter  now  shall  find 
Within  his  parti-colour'd  mind, 
But  from  this  valour  sad 
Shrink  underneath  the  plaid — 

Happy,  if  in  the  tufted  brake    . 
The  English  hunter  him  mistake, 

Nor  lay  his  hounds  in  near 

The  Caledonian  deer. 

But  Thou,  the  War's  and  Fortune's  son, 

March  indefatigably  on  ; 
And  for  the  last  effect 
Still  keep  the  sword  erect : 

Besides  the  force  it  has  to  fright 
The  spirits  of  the  shady  night, 
The  same  arts  that  did  gain 
A  power,  must  it  maintain. 

A.   Mai-veil 


/ 


LXXXIX 

L  YCIDAS 


Elegy  on  a  Friend  drowned  in  the  Irish  Channel 
1637 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more 
Ye  myrtles  brown,  with  ivy  never  sere, 
I  come  to  pluck  your  berries  harsh  and  crude, 
And  with  forced  fingers  rude 


SECOND  69 

Shatter  your  leaves  before  the  mellowing  year. 
Bitter  constraint  and  sad  occasion  dear 
Compels  me  to  disturb  your  season  due  : 
For  Lycidas  is  dead,  dead  ere  his  prime, 
Young  Lycidas,  and  hath  not  left  his  peer. 
Who  would  not  sing  for  Lycidas  ?  he  knew 
Himself  to  sing,  and  build  the  lofty  rhyme 
He  must  not  float  upon  his  watery  bier 
Unwept,  and  welter  to  the  parching  wind, 
Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 

Begin  then,  Sisters  of  the  sacred  well 
That  from  beneath  the  seat  of  Jove  doth  spring ; 
Begin,  and  somewhat  loudly  sweep  the  string. 
Hence  with  denial  vain  and  coy  excuse  : 
So  may  some  gentle  Muse 
With  lucky  words  favour  my  destined  urn  ; 
And  as  he  passes,  turn 
And  bid  fair  peace  be  to  my  sable  shroud. 

For  we  were  nursed  upon  the  self-same  hill, 
Fed  the  same  flock  by  fountain,  shade,  and  rill  : 
Together  both,  ere  the  high  lawns  appear'd 
Under  the  opening  eyelids  of  the  Morn, 
We  drove  a-field,  and  both  together  heard 
What  time  the  gray-fly  winds  her  sultry  horn, 
Battening  our  flocks  with  the  fresh  dews  of  night, 
Oft  till  the  star  that  rose  at  evening  bright 
Toward  heaven's  descent   had  sloped  his  westering 

wheel. 

Meanwhile  the  rural  ditties  were  not  mute, 
Temper'd  to  the  oaten  flute, 

Rough  Satyrs  danced,  and  Fauns  with  cloven  heel 
From  the  glad  sound  would  not  be  absent  long ; 
And  old  Damoetas  loved  to  hear  our  song. 

But,  oh  !  the  heavy  change,  now  thou  art  gone, 
Now  thou  art  gone,  and  never  must  return  ! 
Thee,  Shepherd,  thee  the  woods  and  desert  caves 
With  wild  thyme  and  the  gadding  vine  o'ergrown, 
And  all  their  echoes,  mourn  : 
The  willows  and  the  hazel  copses  green 
Shall  now  no  more  be  seen 
Fanning  their  joyous  leaves  to  thy  soft  lays  : — 


70  BOOK 

As  killing  as  the  canker  to  the  rose, 

Or  taint-worm  to  the  weanling  herds  that  graze, 

Or  frost  to  flowers,  that  their  gay  wardrobe  wear 

When  first  the  white-thorn  blows ; 

Such,  Lycidas,  thy  loss  to  shepherd's  ear. 

Where  were  ye,  Nymphs,  when  the  remorseless  deep 
Closed  o'er  the  head  of  your  loved  Lycidas  ? 
For  neither  were  ye  playing  on  the  steep 
Where  your  old  bards,  the  famous  Druids,  lie, 
Nor  on  the  shaggy  top  of  Mona  high, 
Nor  yet  where  Deva  spreads  her  wizard  stream  : 
Ay  me  !  I  fondly  dream — 
Had  ye  been  there  .   .   .   For  what  could  that  have 

done? 

What  could  the  Muse  herself  that  Orpheus  bore, 
The  Muse  herself,  for  her  enchanting  son, 
Whom  universal  nature  did  lament, 
When  by  the  rout  that  made  the  hideous  roar 
His  gory  visage  down  the  stream  was  sent, 
Down  the  swift  Hebrus  to  the  Lesbian  shore  ?• 

Alas  !  what  boots  it  with  uncessant  care 
To  tend  the  homely,  slighted,  shepherd's  trade 
And  strictly  meditate  the  thankless  Muse  ? 
Were  it  not  better  done,  as  others  use, 
To  sport  with  Amaryllis  in  the  shade, 
Or  with  the  tangles  of  Neaera's  hair  ? 
Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
(That  last  infirmity  of  noble  mind) 
To  scorn  delights,  and  live  laborious  days  ; 
But  the  fair  guerdon  when  we  hope  to  find, 
And  think  to  burst  out  into  sudden  blaze, 
Comes  the  blind  Fury  with  the  abhorred  shears 
And  slits  the  thin-spun  life.     '  But  not  the  praise J 
Phoebus  replied,  and  touch'd  my  trembling  ears  ; 
*  Fame  is  no  plant  that  grows  on  mortal  soil, 
Nor  in  the  glistering  foil 

Set  off  to  the  world,  nor  in  broad  rumour  lies  : 
But  lives  and  spreads  aloft  by  those  pure  eyes 
And  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove  ; 
As  he  pronounces  lastly  on  each  deed, 
Of  so  much  fame  in  heaven  expect  thy  meed, ' 


SECOND  71 

O  fountain  Arethuse,  and  thou  honour  d  flood 
Smooth -sliding  Mincius,  crown'd  with  vocal  reeds, 
That  strain  I  heard  was  of  a  higher  mood. 
But  now  my  oat  proceeds, 
And  listens  to  the  herald  of  the  sea 
That  came  in  Neptune's  plea  ; 
He  ask'd  the  waves,  and  ask'd  the  felon  winds, 
What  hard  mishap  hath  doom'd  this  gentle  swain  ? 
And  question'd  every  gust  of  rugged  wings 
That  blows  from  off  each  beaked  promontory  : 
They  knew  not  of  his  story  ; 
And  sage  Hippotades  their  answer  brings, 
That  not  a  blast  was  from  his  dungeon  stray 'd  ; 
The  air  was  calm,  and  on  the  level  brine 
Sleek  Panope  with  all  her  sisters  play'd. 
It  was  that  fatal  and  perfidious  bark 
Built  in  the  eclipse,  and  rigg'd  with  curses  dark, 
That  sunk  so  low  that  sacred  head  of  thine. 

Next  Camus,  reverend  sire,  went  footing  slow, 
His  mantle  hairy,  and  his  bonnet  sedge 
Inwrought  with  figures  dim,  and  on  the  edge 
Like  to  that  sanguine  flower  inscribed  with  woe  : 
*  Ah  !  who  hath  reft,'  quoth  he,  *  my  dearest  pledge  ! 
Last  came,  and  last  did  go 
The  Pilot  of  the  Galilean  lake  ; 
Two  massy  keys  he  bore  of  metals  twain 
(The  golden  opes,  the  iron  shuts  amain) ; 
He  shook  his  mitred  locks,  and  stern  bespake  : 
'  How  well  could  I  have  spared  for  thee,  young  swain, 
Enow  of  such,  as  for  their  bellies'  sake 
Creep  and  intrude  and  climb  into  the  fold  ! 
Of  other  care  they  little  reckoning  make 
Than  how  to  scramble  at  the  shearers'  feast, 
And  shove  away  the  worthy  bidden  guest. 
Blind  mouths  !  that  scarce  themselves  know  how  to 

hold 

A  sheep-hook,  or  have  learn'd  aught  else  the  least 
That  to  the  faithful  herdman's  art  belongs  ! 
What  recks  it  them  ?     What  need  they  ?    They  ai 

sped; 
And  when  they  list,  their  lean  and  flashy  songs 


72  BOOK 

Grate  on  their  scrannel  pipes  of  wretched  straw  ; 
The  hungry  sheep  look  up,  and  are  not  fed, 
But  swoln  with  wind  and  the  rank  mist  they  draw 
Rot  inwardly,  and  foul  contagion  spread  : 
Besides  what  the  grim  wolf  with  privy  paw 
Daily  devours  apace,  and  nothing  said  : 
— But  that  two-handed  engine  at  the  door 
Stands  ready  to  smite  once,  and  smite  no  more. 

Return,  Alpheus  ;  the  dread  voice  is  past 
That  shrunk  thy  streams ;  return,  Sicilian  Muse, 
And  call  the  vales,  and  bid  them  hither  cast 
Their  bells  and  flowerets  of  a  thousand  hues. 
Ye  valleys  low,  where  the  mild  whispers  use 
Of  shades,  and  wanton  winds,  and  gushing  brooks 
On  whose  fresh  lap  the  swart  star  sparely  looks  ; 
Throw  hither  all  your  quaint  enamell'd  eyes 
That  on  the  green  turf  suck  the  honey'd  showers 
And  purple  all  the  ground  with  vernal  flowers. 
Bring  the  rathe  primrose  that  forsaken  dies, 
The  tufted  crow-toe,  and  pale  jessamine, 
The  white  pink,  and  the  pansy  freak'd  with  jet, 
The  glowing  violet, 

The  musk-rose,  and  the  well-attired  woodbine, 
With  cowslips  wan  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 
And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears : 
Bid  amarantus  all  his  beauty  shed, 
And  daffadillies  fill  their  cups  with  tears 
To  strew  the  laureat  hearse  where  Lycid  lies. 
For  so  to  interpose  a  little  ease, 
Let  our  frail  thoughts  dally  with  false  surmise  : — 
Ay  me  !  whilst  thee  the  shores  and  sounding  seas 
Wash  far  away, — where'er  thy  bones  are  hurl'd, 
Whether  beyond  the  stormy  Hebrides 
Where  thou  p<  rhaps,  under  the  whelming  tide, 
Visitest  the  bottom  of  the  monstrous  world  ; 
Or  whether  thou,  to  our  moist  vows  denied, 
Sleep'st  by  the  fable  of  Bellerus  old, 
Where  the  great  Vision  of  the  guarded  mount 
Looks  toward  Namancos  and  Bayona's  hold, 
— Look  homeward,  Angel,  now,  and  melt  with  ruth; 
—And,  O  ye  dolphins,  waft  the  hapless  youth  ! 


SECOND  73 

Weep  no  more,  woeful  shepherds,  weep  no  more, 
For  Lycidas,  your  sorrow,  is  not  dead, 
Sunk  though  he  be  beneath  the  watery  floor  : 
So  sinks  the  day-star  in  the  ocean-bed, 
And  yet  anon  repairs  his  drooping  head 
And  tricks  his  beams,  and  with  new-spangled  ore 
Flames  in  the  forehead  of  the  morning  sky : 
So  Lycidas  sunk  low,  but  mounted  high 
Through  the  dear  might  of  Him  that  walk'd  the  waves ; 
Where,  other  groves  and  other  streams  along, 
With  nectar  pure  his  oozy  locks  he  laves, 
And  hears  the  unexpressive  nuptial  song 
In  the  blest  kingdoms  meek  of  joy  and  love. 
There  entertain  him  all  the  Saints  above 
In  solemn  troops,  and  sweet  societies, 
That  sing,  and  singing,  in  their  glory  move, 
And  wipe  the  tears  for  ever  from  his  eyes. 
Now,  Lycidas,  the  shepherds  weep  no  more  ; 
Henceforth  thou  art  the  Genius  of  the  shore 
In  thy  large  recompense,  and  shall  be  good 
To  all  that  wander  in  that  perilous  flood. 

Thus  sang  che  uncouth  swain  to  the  oaks  and  rills, 
While  the  still  morn  went  out  with  sandals  gray  ; 
He  touch'd  the  tender  stops  of  various  quills, 
With  eager  thought  warbling  his  Doric  lay  : 
And  now  the  sun  had  stretch'd  out  all  the  hills, 
And  now  was  dropt  into  the  western  bay  : 
At  last  he  rose,  and  twitch'd  his  mantle  blue : 
To-morrow  to  fresh  woods,  and  pastures  new. 

/.  Milton 

XC 
ON  THE  TOMBS  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBE  V 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear 

What  a  change  of  flesh  is  here  ! 

Think  how  many  royal  bones 

Sleep  within  these  heaps  of  stones ; 

Here  they  lie,  had  realms  and  lands, 

Who  now  want  strength  to  stir  their  hands, 


74  BOOK 

Where  from  their  pulpits  seal'd  with  dust 

They  preach,  '  In  greatness  is  no  trust.' 

Here's  an  acre  sown  indeed 

With  the  richest  royallest  seed 

That  the  earth  did  e'er  suck  in 

Since  the  first  man  died  for  sin  : 

Here  the  bones  of  birth  have  cried 

'  Though  gods  they  were,  as  men  they  died  . : 

Here  are  sands,  ignoble  things, 

Dropt  from  the  ruin'd  sides  of  kings  : 

Here's  a  world  of  pomp  and  state 

Buried  in  dust,  once  dead  by  fate. 

F.  Beaumont 
xci 

'THE  LAST  CONQUEROR 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 

Proclaim  how  wide  your  empires  are  ; 

Though  you  bind-in  every  shore 
And  your  triumphs  reach  as  far 

As  night  or  day, 
Yet  you,  proud  monarchs,  must  obey 

And  mingle  with  forgotten  ashes,  when 

Death  calls  ye  to  the  crowd  of  common  men. 

Devouring  Famine,  Plague,  and  War 

Each  able  to  undo  mankind, 

Death's  servile  emissaries  are  ; 

Nor  to  these  alone  confined, 

He  hath  at  will 

More  quaint  and  subtle  ways  to  kill ; 
A  smile  or  kiss,  as  he  will  use  the  art, 
Shall  have  the  cunning  skill  to  break  a  heart. 

/.  Shirley 

XCII 

DEATH  THE  LEVELLER 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things ; 

There  is  no  armour  against  fate  ; 

Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings : 


SECOND  75 

Sceptre  and  Crown 

Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 

And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill : 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
The}  tame  but  one  another  still : 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow  ; 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now 

See  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds  : 
Your  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb  ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

/.  Shirley 


XCIII 

WHEN  THE   ASSAULT  .WAS  INTENDED 
TO  THE  CITY 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms, 

Whose  chance  on  these  defenceless  doors  may  seize, 

If  deed  of  honour  did  thee  ever  please, 

Guard  them,  and  him  within  protect  from  harms. 

He  can  requite  thee  ;  for  he  knows  the  charms 
That  call  fame  on  such  gentle  acts  as  these, 
And  he  can  spread  thy  name  o'er  lands  and  seas, 
Whatever  clime  the  sun's  bright  circle  warms. 

Lift  not  thy  spear  against  the  Muses'  bower  : 

The  great  Emathian  conqueror  bid  spare 

The  house  of  Pindarus,  when  temple  and  tower 


76  BOOK 

Went  to  the  ground  :  and  the  repeated  air 

Of  sad  Electra's  poet  had  the  power 

To  save  the  Athenian  walls  from  ruin  bare. 

/.  Wilton 


XCIV 

ON  HIS  BLINDNESS 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 
Ere  half  my  days,  in  this  dark  world  and  wide, 
And  that  one  talent  which  is  death  to  hide 
Lodged  with  me  useless,  though  my  soul  more  bent 

To  serve  therewith  my  Maker,  and  present 
My  true  account,  lest  He  returning  chide, — 
Doth  God  exact  day-labour,  light  denied  ? 
I  fondly  ask  : — But  Patience,  to  prevent 

That  murmur,  soon  replies  ;  God  doth  not  need 
Either  man's  work,  or  His  own  gifts  :  who  best 
Bear  His  mild  yoke,  they  serve  Him  best :  His  state 

Is  kingly  ;  thousands  at  His  bidding  speed 
And  post  o'er  land  and  ocean  without  rest  : — 
They  also  serve  who  only  stand  and  wait. 

/,   Milton 


CHARACTER  OF  A  HAPPY  LIFE 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 
That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armour  is  his  honest  thought 
And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill  ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 
Untied  unto  the  world  by  care 
Of  public  fame,  or  private  breath  ; 


SECOND  77 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise 
Nor  vice  ;  Who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 
Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  : 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumours  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 
Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray 
More  of  His  grace  than  gifts  to  lend  ; 
And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend  , 

— This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands 
Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands  ; 
And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

Sir  H.    Wotton 


xcvi 
THE  NOBLE  NATURE 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree 
In  bulk,  doth  make  Man  better  be  ; 
Or  standing  long  an  oak,  three  hundred  year, 
To  fall  a  log  at  last,  dry,  bald,  and  sere  : 
A  lily  of  a  day  * 
Is  fairer  far  in  May, 
Although  it  fall  and  die  that  night — 
It  was  the  plant  and  flower  of  Light. 
In  small  proportions  we  just  beauties  see  ; 
And  in  short  measures  life  may  perfect  be. 

B.  Jonson 


78  BOOK 


XCVH 

THE  GIFTS  OF  GOD 

When  God  at  first  made  Man, 
Having  a  glass  of  blessings  standing  by  ; 
Let  us  (said  He)  pour  on  him  all  we  can  : 
Let  the  world's  riches,  which  dispersed  lie, 

Contract  into  a  span. 

So  strength  first  made  a  way  ; 

Then  beauty  flow'd,  then  wisdom,  honour,  pleasure 
When  almost  all  was  out,  God  made  a  stay, 
Perceiving  that  alone,  of  all  His  treasure, 

Rest  in  the  bottom  lay. 

For  if  I  should  (said  He) 
Bestow  this  jewel  also  on  My  creature, 
He  would  adore  My  gifts  instead  of  Me, 
And  rest  in  Nature,  not  the  God  of  Nature, 

So  both  should  losers  be. 

Yet  let  him  keep  the  rest, 
But  keep  them  with  repining  restlessness : 
Let  him  be  rich  and  weary,  that  at  least, 
If  goodness  lead  him  not,  yet  weariness 

May  toss  him  to  My  breast. 
G.  Herbert 


XCVIII 

THE  RETREAT 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 
Shined  in  my  Angel-infancy  ! 
Before  I  understood  this  place 
Appointed  for  my  second  race, 
Or  taught  my  soul  to  fancy  aught 
But  a  white,  celestial  thought ; 
When  yet  I  had  not  walk'd  above 
A  mile  or  two  from  my  first  Love, 


SECOND  79 

And  looKing  back,  at  that  short  space 
Could  see  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face  ; 
When  on  some  gilded  cloud  or  flower 
My  gazing  soul  would  dwell  an  hour, 
And  in  those  weaker  glories  spy 
Some  shadows  of  eternity  ; 
Before  I  taught  my  tongue  to  wound 
My  conscience  with  a  sinful  sound, 
Or  had  the  black  art  to  dispense 
A  several  sin  to  every  sense, 
But  felt  through  all  this  fleshly  dress 
Bright  shoots  of  everlastingness. 

O  how  I  long  to  travel  back, 
And  tread  again  that  ancient  track  ! 
That  I  might  once  more  reach  that  plain 
Where  first  I  left  my  glorious  train  ; 
From  whence  th'  enlighten'd  spirit  sees 
That  shady  City  of  palm  trees  ! 
But  ah  !  my  soul  with  too  much  stay 
Is  drunk,  and  staggers  in  the  way  : — 
Some  men  a  forward  motion  love, 
But  I  by  backward  steps  would  move  ; 
And  when  this  dust  falls  to  the  urn, 
In  that  state  I  came,  return. 

H.    Vaughan 


XCIX 

TO  MR.  LA  WRENCE 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 
Now  that  the  fields  are  dank  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 

From  the  hard  season  gaining  ?    Time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 
The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 


so  3OOK 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice, 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch'd,  or  artful  voice 

Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air  ? 

He  who  of  those  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 

To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

/.  Milton 


TO  CYRIACK  SKINNER 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 
Pronounced,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench  ; 

To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 

In  mirth,  that  after  no  repenting  draws  ; 

Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimed'  s  pause, 

And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the  French, 

To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 
Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way  ; 
For  other  things  mild  Heaven  a  time  ordains, 

And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 
That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day, 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 

/.  Milton 


* 


HYMN  IN  PRAISE  OF  NEPTUNE 

Of  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing, 
At  whose  command  the  waves  obey  ; 
To  whom  the  rivers  tribute  pay, 
Down  the  high  mountains  sliding  ; 
To  whom  the  scaly  nation  yields 
Homage  for  the  crystal  fields 
Wherein  they  dwell ; 


SECOND  8l 

And  every  sea-god  pays  a  gem 

Yearly  out  of  his  watery  cell, 

To  deck  great  Neptune's  diadem. 

The  Tritons  dancing  in  a  ring, 
Before  his  palace  gates  do  make 
The  water  with  their  echoes  quake, 
Like  the  great  thunder  sounding  : 
The  sea-nymphs  chaunt  their  accents  shrilL 
And  the  Syrens  taught  to  kill 
With  their  sweet  voice, 
Make  every  echoing  rock  reply, 
Unto  their  gentle  murmuring  noise, 
The  praise  of  Neptune's  empery. 

T.   Campion 


HYMN  TO  DIANA 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep, 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close  : 
Bless  us  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright. 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver  ; 
fiive  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever  : 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night; 
Goddess  excellently  bright  ! 

B.  Jonson 

G 


82  BOOK 


WISHES  FOR  THE  SUPPOSED  MISTRESS 

Whoe'er  she  be, 

That  not  impossible  She 

That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me  ; 

Where'er  she  lie, 

Lock'd  up  from  mortal  eye 

In  shady  leaves  of  destiny  : 

Till  that  ripe  birth 

Of  studied  Fate  stand  forth, 

And  teach  her  fair  steps  tread  our  earth  ; 

Till  that  divine 

Idea  take  a  shrine 

Of  crystal  flesh,  through  which  to  shine  : 

— Meet  you  her,  my  Wishes, 

Bespeak  her  to  my  blisses, 

And  be  ye  call'd,  my  absent  kisses. 

I  wish  her  beauty 
That  owes  not  all  its  duty 
To  gaudy  tire,  or  glist'ring  shoe-tie  : 

Something  more  than 
TafTata  or  tissue  can, 
Or  rampant  feather,  or  rich  fan. 

A  face  that's  best 

By  its  own  beauty  drest, 

And  can  alone  commend  the  rest : 

A  face  made  up 

Out  of  no  other  shop 

Than  what  Nature's  white  hand  sets  ope. 

Sidneian  showers 

Of  sweet  discourse,  whose  powers 

Can  crown  old  Winter's  head  with  flowers. 


SECOND  83 

Whate'er  delight 

Can  make  day's  forehead  bright 

Or  give  down  to  tne  wings  of  night. 

Soft  silken  hours, 

Open  suns,  shady  bowers  ; 

'Bove  all,  nothing  within  that  lowers. 

Days,  that  need  borrow 

No  part  of  their  good  morrow 

From  a  fore-spent  night  of  sorrow  : 

Days,  that  in  spite 

Of  darkness,  by  the  light 

Of  a  clear  mind  are  day  all  night. 

Life,  that  dares  send 

A  challenge  to  his  end, 

And  when  it  comes,  say,  '  Welcome,  friend/ 

I  wish  her  store 

Of  worth  may  leave  her  poor 

Of  wishes  ;  and  I  wish no  more. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 
That  Her,  whose  radiant  brows 
Weave  them  a  garland  of  my  vows ; 

Her  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see  : 

I  seek  no  further,  it  is  She. 

'Tis  She,  and  here 

Lo  !  I  unclothe  and  clear 

My  wishes'  cloudy  character. 

Such  worth  as  this  is 
Shall  fix  my  flying  wishes, 
And  determine  them  to  kisses. 

Let  her  full  glory, 

My  fancies,  fly  before  ye  ; 

Be  ye  my  fictions  :  -but  her  story. 

Jt,    Crashaw 

G  2 


BOOK 

civ 
THE  GREAT  ADVENTURER 

Over  the  mountains 
And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 
And  under  the  graves  ; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 
Which  Neptune  obey  ; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie  ; 

Where  there  is  no  space 

For  receipt  of  a  fly  ; 

Where  the  midge  dares  not  venture 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay  ; 

If  love  come,  he  will  enter 

And  soon  find  out  his  way. 

You  may  esteem  him 

A  child  for  his  might  ; 

Or  you  may  deem  him 

A  coward  from  his  flight  ; 

But  if  she  whom  love  doth  honour 

Be  conceal'd  from  the  day, 

Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him 
By  having  him  confined  ; 
And  some  do  suppose  him, 
Poor  thing,  to  be  blind  ; 
But  if  ne'er  so  close  ye  wall  him, 
Do  the  best  that  you  may, 
Blind  love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 
Will  find  out  his  way. 


SECOND 

You  may  train  the  eagle 
To  stoop  to  your  fist ; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 
The  phoenix  of  the  east ; 
The  lioness,  ye  may  move  her 
To  give  o'er  her  prey  ; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover  : 
He  will  find  out  his  way. 

Anon. 


cv 

THE  PICTURE  OF  LITTLE  T.C.  IN  A 
PROSPECT  OF  FLOWERS 

See  with  what  simplicity 

This  nymph  begins  her  golden  days  ! 

In  the  green  grass  she  loves  to  lie, 

And  there  with  her  fair  aspect  tames 

The  wilder  flowers,  and  gives  them  names  ; 

But  only  with  the  roses  plays, 

And  them  does  tell 
What  colours  best  become  them,  and  what  smell. 

Who  can  foretell  for  what  high  cause 
This  darling  of  the  Gods  was  born  ? 
Yet  this  is  she  whose  chaster  laws 
The  wanton  Love  shall  one  day  fear, 
And,  under  her  command  severe, 
Sec  his  bow  broke,  and  ensigns  torn. 

Happy  who  can 
Appease  this  virtuous  enemy  of  man  ! 

O  then  let  me  in  time  compound 
And  parley  with  those  conquering  eyes, 
Ere  they  have  tried  their  force  to  wound ; 
Ere  with  their  glancing  wheels  they  drive 
In  triumph  over  hearts  that  strive, 
And  them  that  yield  but  more  despise  : 

Let  me  be  laid, 
Where  I  may  see  the  glories  from  some  shade. 


*6  BOOK 

Mean  time,  whilst  every  verdant  thing 
Itself  does  at  thy  beauty  charm, 
Reform  the  errors  of  the  Spring  ; 
Make  that  the  tulips  may  have  share 
Of  sweetness,  seeing  they  are  fair, 
And  roses  of  their  thorns  disarm  , 

But  most  procurt 
That  violets  may  a  longer  age  endure. 

But  O  young  beauty  of  the  woods, 

Whom  Nature  courts  with  fruits  and  flowers, 

Gather  the  flowers,  but  spare  the  buds ; 

Lest  FLORA,  angry  at  thy  crime 

To  kill  her  infants  in  their  prime, 

Should  quickly  make  th'  example  yours  ; 

And  ere  we  see — 
Nip  in  the  blossom — all  our  hopes  and  thee. 

A.  Marvett 


cvi 
CHILD  AND  MAIDEN 

Ah,  Chloris  !  could  I  now  but  sit 

As  unconcern'd  as  when 
Your  infant  beauty  could  beget 

No  happiness  or  pain  ! 
When  I  the  dawn  used  to  admire, 

And  praised  the  coming  day, 
I  little  thought  the  rising  fire 

Would  take  my  rest  away. 

Your  charms  in  harmless  childhood  lay 

Like  metals  in  a  mine  ; 
Age  from  no  face  takes  more  away 

Than  youth  conceal'd  in  thine. 
$ut  as  your  charms  insensibly 

To  their  perfection  prest, 
60  love  as  unperceived  did  fly, 

And  center'd  in  my  breast. 


SECOND- 

My  passion  with  your  beauty  grew, 

While  Cupid  at  my  heart, 
Still  as  his  mother  favour'd  you, 

Threw  a  new  flaming  dart : 
Each  gloried  in  their  wanton  part ; 

To  make  a  lover,  he 
Employ'd  the  utmost  of  his  art — 

To  make  a  beauty,  she. 

Sir  C.  Sedley 


CVII 

CONSTANCY 

I  cannot  change,  as  others  do, 

Though  you  unjustly  scorn, 
Since  that  poor  swain  that  sighs  for  you, 

For  you  alone  was  born  ; 
No,  Phyllis,  no,  your  heart  to  move 

A  surer  way  I'll  try, — 
And  to  revenge  my  slighted  love, 

Will  still  love  on,  and  die. 

When,  kill'd  with  grief,  Amintas  lies, 

And  you  to  mind  shall  call 
The  sighs  that  now  unpitied  rise, 

The  tears  that  vainly  fall, 
That  welcome  hour  that  ends  his  smart 

Will  then  begin  your  pain, 
For  such  a  faithful  tender  heart 

Can  never  break  in  vain. 

J.  Wilmot)  Earl  of  Rochester 


CVIII 

:    COUNSEL  TO  GIRLS 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may, 

Old  Time  is  still  a-flying  : 
And  this  same  flower  that  smiles  to-day, 

To-morrow  will  be  dying. 


8&  BOOK 

The  glorious  Lamp  of  Heaven,  the  Sun, 

The  higher  he's  a-getting 
The  sooner  will  his  race  be  run, 

And  nearer  he's  to  setting. 

That  age  is  best  which  is  the  first, 
When  youth  and  blood  are  warmer  ; 

But  being  spent,  the  worse,  and  worst 
Times,  still  succeed  the  former. 

Then  be  not  coy,  but  use  your  time  ; 

And  while  ye  may,  go  marry  : 
For  having  lost  but  once  your  prime, 

You  may  for  ever  tarry. 

R.  Herrick 

cix 
TO  LUCASTA,  ON  GOING   TO  THE  WARS 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  Honour  more. 

Colonel  Lovelace 

ex 
ELIZABETH  OF  BOHEMIA 

You  meaner  beauties  of  the  night, 

That  poorly  satisfy  our  eyes 
More  by  your  number  than  your  light, 


SECOND  89 

You  common  people  of  the  skies, 
What  are  you,  when  the  Moon  shall  rise  ? 

You  curious  chanters  of  the  wood 

That  warble  forth  dame  Nature's  lays, 

Thinking  your  passions  understood 

By  your  weak  accents  ;  what's  your  praise 

When  Philomel  her  voice  doth  raise  ? 

You  violets  that  first  appear, 

By  your  pure  purple  mantles  known 

Like  the  proud  virgins  of  the  year, 
As  if  the  spring  were  all  your  own, — 

What  are  you,  when  the  Rose  is  blown  ? 

So  when  my  Mistress  shall  be  seen 

In  form  and  beauty  of  her  mind, 
By  virtue  first,  then  choice,  a  Queen, 

Tell  me,  if  she  were  not  design'd 
Th'  eclipse  and  glory  of  her  kind  ? 

Sir  H.  Wotton 


CXI 

TO  THE  LADY  MARGARET  LEY 

Daughter  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President 
Of  England's  Council  and  her  Treasury, 
Who  lived  in  both,  unstain'd  with  gold  or  fee, 
And  left  them  both,  more  in  himself  content, 

Till  the  sad  breaking  of  that  Parliament 

Broke  him,  as  that  dishonest  victory 

At  Chaeroneia,  fatal  to  liberty, 

Kill'd  with  report  that  old  man  eloquent ; — 

Though  later  born  than  to  have  known  the  days 
Wherein  your  father  flour ish'd,  yet  by  you, 
Madam,  methinks  I  see  him  living  yet ; 

So  well  your  words  his  noble  virtues  praise, 
That  all  both  judge  you  to  relate  them  true, 
And  to  possess  them,  honour'd  Margaret. 

/.  Milton 


90  BOOK 


THE  TR  UE  BE  A  UTY 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  an'1  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thought',,  and  calm  desires, 

Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 
Kindle  never-dying  fires  : — 

Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 

Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

T.  Carew 

cxm 
TO  DIANEME 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 
Which  starlike  sparkle  in  their  skies  ; 
Nor  be  you  proud,  that  you  can  see 
All  hearts  your  captives  ;  yours  yet  free  : 
Be  you  not  proud  of  that  rich  hair 
Which  wantons  with  the  lovesick  air ; 
Whenas  that  ruby  which  you  wear, 
Sunk  from  the  tip  of  your  soft  ear, 
Will  last  to  be  a  precious  stone 
When  all  your  world  of  beauty's  gone. 
R.  Herrick 


Love  in  thy  youth,  fair  Maid,  be  wise  ; 

Old  Time  will  make  thee  colder, 
And  though  each  morning  new  arise 

Yet  we  each  day  grow  older. 


SECOND  91 

Thou  as  Heaven  art  fair  ana  young, 

Thine  eyes  like  twin  stars  shining  ; 
But  ere  another  day  be  sprung 

All  these  will  be  declining. 
Then  winter  comes  with  all  his  fears, 

And  all  thy  sweets  shall  borrow  ; 
Too  late  then  wilt  thou  shower  thy  tears,— 

And  I  too  late  shall  sorrow  ! 
Anon. 


cxv 

Go,  lovely  Rose ! 
Tell  her,  that  wastes  her    .me  arid  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired  : 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die  !  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  : 

How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair  1 

E.    Wallet 


92  BOOK 

CXVI 

TO  CELIA 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be  ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself  but  thee  ! 

B.  Jonson 


cxvn 
CHERRY-RIPE 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 

Where  roses  and  white  lilies  blow  ; 

A  heavenly  paradise  is  that  place, 
Wherein  all  pleasant  fruits  do  grow  ; 

There  cherries  grow  that  none  may  buy, 

Till  Cherry- Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 

Those  cherries  fairly  do  enclose 

Of  orient  pearl,  a  double  row, 
Which  when  her  lovely  laughter  shows, 

They  look  like  rose-buds  fill'd  with  snow : 
Yet  them  no  peer  nor  prince  may  buy, 
Till  Cherry- Ripe  themselves  do  cry. 


SECOND  93 

Her  eyes  like  angels  watch  them  still ; 

Her  brows  like  bended  bows  do  stand, 
Threat'ning  with  piercing  frowns  to  kill 

All  that  approach  with  eye  or  hand 
These  sacred  cherries  to  come  nigh, 
Till  Cherry- Ripe  themselves  do  cry  ! 

Anon. 

CXVIII 

JORINNA'S  MA  YING 

Get  up,  get  up  for  shame  !     The  blooming  morn 
Upon  her  wings  presents  the  god  unshorn. 
See  how  Aurora  throws  her  fair 
Fresh-quilted  colours  through  the  air  : 
Get  up,  sweet  Slug-a-bed,  and  see 
The  dew  bespangling  herb  and  tree. 
Each  flower  has  wept,  and  bow'd  toward  the  east, 
Above  an  hour  since  ;  yet  you  not  drest, 
Nay  !  not  so  much  as  out  of  bed  ? 
When  all  the  birds  have  matins  said, 
And  sung  their  thankful  hymns  :  'tis  sin, 
Nay,  profanation,  to  keep  in, — 
Whenas  a  thousand  virgins  on  this  day, 
Spring,  sconer  than  the  lark,  to  fetch-in  May. 

Rise  ;  and  put  on  your  foliage,  and  be  seen 

To  come  forth,  like  the  Spring-time,  fresh  and  gieen 

And  sweet  as  Flora.     Take  no  care 

For  jewels  for  your  gown,  or  hair  : 

Fear  not ;  the  leaves  will  strew 

Gems  in  abundance  upon  you  : 
Besides,  the  childhood  of  the  day  has  kept, 
Against  you  come,  some  orient  pearls  unwept : 

Come,  and  receive  them  while  the  light 

Hangs  on  the  dew-locks  of  the  night : 

And  Titan  on  the  eastern  hill 

Retires  himself,  or  else  stands  still 
Till    you    come    forth.     Wash,    dress,    be   brief   in 

praying  : 
Few  beads  are  best,  when  once  we  go  a  Maying. 


94  BOOK 

Come,  my  Corinna,  come ;  and  coming,  mark 
How  each  field  turns  a  street ;  each  street  a  park 

Made  green,  and  trimm'd  with  trees  :  see  how 

Devotion  gives  each  house  a  bough 

Or  branch  :  Each  porch,  each  door,  ere  this, 

An  ark,  a  tabernacle  is, 
Made  up  of  white-thorn  neatly  interwove  ; 
As  if  here  were  those  cooler  shades  of  love. 

Can  such  delights  be  in  the  street, 

And  open  fields,  and  we  not  see't  ? 

Come  we'  1.1  abroad  :  and  let's  obey 

The  proclamation  made  for  May  : 
And  sin  no  more,  as  we  have  done,  by  staying ; 
But,  my  Corinna,  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

There's  not  a  budding  boy,  or  girl,  this  day, 
But  is  got  up,  and  gone  to  bring  in  May. 

A  deal  of  youth,  ere  this,  is  come 

Back,  and  with  white-thorn  laden  home. 

Some  have  despatch'd  their  cakes  and  cream, 

Before  that  we  have  left  to  dream  : 
And  some  have  wept,  and  woo'd,  and  plighted  troth, 
And  chose  their  priest,  ere  we  can  cast  off  sloth : 

Many  a  green-gown  has  been  given  ; 

Many  a  kiss,  both  odd  and  even  : 

Many  a  glance  too  has  been  sent 

From  out  the  eye,  Love's  firmament : 
Many  a  jest  told  of  the  keys  betraying 
This  night,    and    locks    pick'd : — Yet   we're   not  a 

Maying. 

— Come,  let  us  go,  while  we  are  in  our  prime  ; 
And  take  the  harmless  folly  of  the  time  !  • 

We  shall  grow  old  apace,  and  die 

Before  we  know  our  liberty. 

Our  life  is  short ;  and  our  days  run 

As  fast  away  as  does  the  sun  : — 
And  as  a  vapour,  or  a  drop  of  rain 
Once  lost,  can  ne'er  be  found  again  : 

So  when  or  you  or  I  are  made 

A  fable,  song,  or  fleeting  shade  ; 


SECOND  95 

All  love,  all  liking,  all  delight 
Lies  drown'd  with  us  in  endless  night. 
Then  while  time  serves,  and  we  are  but  decaying, 
Come,  my  Corinna  !  come,  let's  go  a  Maying. 

R.  Herrick 


CXIX 

1  HE  POETRY  OF  DRESS 


A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 
Kindles  in  clothes  a  wantonness  :— 
A  lawn  about  the  shoulders  thrown 
Into  a  fine  distraction, — 
An  erring  lace,  which  here  and  there 
Enthrals  the  crimson  stomacher, — 
A  cuff  neglectful,  and  thereby 
Ribbands  to  flow  confusedly, — 
A  winning  wave,  deserving  note, 
In  the  tempestuous  petticoat, — 
A  careless  shoe-string,  in  whose  tie 
I  see  a  wild  civility, — 
Do  more  bewitch  me,  than  when  art 
Is  too  precise  in  every  part. 

R.  Herrick 


CXX 

2 

Whenas  in  silks  my  Julia  goes 

Then,  then  (methinks)  how  sweetly  flows 

That  liquefaction  of  her  clothes. 

Next,  when  I  cast  mine  eyes  and  see 
That  brave  vibration  each  way  free  ; 
O  how  that  glittering  taketh  me  ! 

R.  Herrick 


96  BOOK 


cxxi 

3 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit, 

It  doth  so  well  become  her  : 
For  every  season  she  hath  dressings  fit, 

For  Winter,  Spring,  and  Summer. 
No  beauty  she  doth  miss 
When  all  her  robes  are  on  : 
But  Beauty's  self  she  is 
When  all  her  robes  are  gone. 

Anon. 

CXXII 

ON  A  GIRDLE 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer 
My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move. 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair  ? 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  Sun  goes  round. 

E.  Waller 

CXXIII 

A  MYSTICAL  ECSTASY 

E'en  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks, 

That  wash  the  pebbles  with  their  wanton  streams, 

And  having  ranged  and  search'd  a  thousand  nooks, 
Meet  both  at  length  in  silver-breasted  Thames, 
Where  in  a  greater  current  they  conjoin  : 

So  I  my  Best- Beloved's  am  ;  so  He  is  mine. 


SECOND  97 

E'en  so  we  met ;  and  after  long  pursuit, 

E'en  so  we  join'd  ;  we  both  became  entire  ; 

No  need  for  either  to  renew  a  suit, 

For  I  was  flax  and  he  was  flames  of  fire  : 
Our  firm-united  souls  did  more  than  twine  ; 

So  I  my  Best-Beloved's  am ;  so  He  is  mine. 

If  all  those  glittering  Monarchs  that  command 
The  servile  quarters  of  this  earthly  ball, 

Should  tender,  in  exchange,  their  shares  of  land, 
I  would  not  change  my  fortunes  for  them  all : 
Their  wealth  is  but  a  counter  to  my  coin  : 

The  world's  but  theirs  ;  but  my  Beloved's  mine. 

F.  Quarles 


TO  ANTHEA   WHO  MA  Y  COMMAND  HIM 
ANY  THING 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 

Thy  Protestant  to  be  : 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 

A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 

Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay, 

To  honour  thy  decree  : 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And  't  shall  do  so  for'  thee. 

Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see  : 
And  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Bid  me  despair,  and  I'll  despair, 

Under  that  cypress  tree  : 
Or  bid  me  die,  and  I  will  dare 

E'en  Death,  to  die  for  thee. 
H 


BOOK 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me, 
And  hast  command  of  every  part, 

To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

R.  Herrick 


cxxv 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart, — 
For  those  may  fail,  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever  : 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why — 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 
To  doat  upon  me  ever  ! 
Anon. 


cxxvi 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 

Or  better  than  the  rest  ; 
For  I  would  change  each  hour,  like  them 

Were  not  my  heart  at  rest. 

But  I  am  tied  to  very  thee 

By  every  thought  I  have  ; 
Thy  face  I  only  care  to  see, 

Thy  heart  I  only  crave. 

All  that  in  woman  is  adored 

In  thy  dear  self  I  find — 
For  the  whole  sex  can  but  afford 

The  handsome  and  the  kind. 

Why  then  should  I  seek  further  store, 

And  still  make  love  anew  ? 
When  change  itself  can  give  no  more, 

'Tis  easy  to  be  true. 

Sir  C.  Sedley 


SECOND 

CXXVII 

TO  ALTHEA  FROM  PRISON 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

iiovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  Gods  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
When  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free-* 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

When,  (like  committed  linnets),  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enlarged  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage  ; 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone,  that  soar  above, 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Colonel  Lovelace. 

H  2 


loo  BOOK 

CXXVIII 

TO  LUC  AST  A,  GOING  BEYOND  THE 
SEAS 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be 

Away  from  thee  ; 
Or  that  when  I  am  gone 
You  or  I  were  alone  ; 
Then,  my  Lucasta,  might  I  crave 
Pity  from  blustering  wind,  or  swallowing  wave. 

But  I'll  not  sigh  one  blast  or  gale 

To  swell  my  sail, 
Or  pay  a  tear  to  'suage 
The  foaming  blue-god's  rage  ; 
For  whether  he  will  let  me  pass 
Or  no,  I'm  still  as  happy  as  I  was. 

Though  seas  and  land  betwixt  us  both, 

Our  faith  and  troth, 
Like  separated  souls, 
All  time  and  space  controls  : 
Above  the  highest  sphere  we  meet 
Unseen,  unknown,  and  greet  as  Angels  greet. 

So  then  we  do  anticipate 

Our  after-fate, 
And  are  alive  i'  the  .skies, 
If  thus  our  lips  and  eyes 
Can  speak  like  spirits  imconfined 
In  Heaven,  their  earthy  bodies  left  behind. 

Colonel  Lovelace 

CXXIX 

ENCOURAGEMENTS  TO  A  LOVER 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 
Will,  if  looking  well  can't  move  her 

Looking  ill  prevail  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  pale  ? 


SECOND  101 

Why  so  dull  and  mute,;  yowig  3inne~  ? 

Prythee,  why  so  mute  ? 
Will,  when  speaking  well  can't  win  her. 

Saying  nothing  do't  ? 

Prfthee,  why  so  mute  ? 

Quit,  quit,  for  shame  !  this  will  not  move, 

This  cannot  take  her  ; 
If  of  herself  she  will  not  love, 
Nothing  can  make  her  : 
The  D— 1  take  her  ! 

SirJ.  Suckling 


cxxx 
A  SUPPLICATION 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre  ! 
A.nd  tell  thy  silent  master's  humble  tale 

In  sounds  that  may  prevail ; 
Sounds  that  gentle  thoughts  inspire  : 

Though  so  exalted  she 

And  I  so  lowly  be 
Tell  her,  such  different  notes  make  all  thy  harmony 

Hark,  how  the  strings  awake  ! 
And,  though  the  moving  hand  approach  not  near, 

Themselves  with  awful  fear 
A  kind  of  numerous  trembling  make. 

Now  all  thy  forces  try  ; 

Now  all  thy  charms  apply  ; 
Revenge  upon  her  ear  the  conquests  of  her  eye. 

Weak  Lyre  !  thy  virtue  sure 
Is  useless  here,  since  thou  art  only  found 

To  cure,  but  not  to  wound, 
And  she  to  wound,  but  not  to  cure. 

Too  weak  too  wilt  thou  prove 

My  passion  to  remove  ; 
Physic  to  other  ills,  thou'rt  nourishment  to  Love. 


102  BOOK 

Gleep,  sleep  ?gain,  my  Lyre! 
for  thou  canst  never  tell  my  humble  tale 

In  sounds  that  will  prevail, 
Nor  gentle  thoughts  in  her  inspire  ; 
All  thy  vain  mirth  lay  by, 
Bid  thy  strings  silent  lie, 

Sleep,  sleep  again,  my  Lyre,  and  let  thy  master  die. 

A.  Cow  ley 


cxxxi 
THE  MANLY  HEART 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman's  fair  ? 
Or  make  pale  my  cheeks  with  care 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May — 
If  she  think  not  well  of  me 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 

Shall  my  silly  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind  ; 
Or  a  well  disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature  ? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me 
What  care  I  how  kind  she  be? 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  well-deservings  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  merit  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  be  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 


SECOND  103 

'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
She  that  bears  a  noble  mind 
If  not  outward  helps  she  find, 
Thinks  what  with  them  he  would  do 
Who  without  them  dares  her  woo  ; 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  how  great  she  be  ? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 

I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair  ; 

If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 

I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve  ; 

If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 

I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go  ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 
G.   Wither 

CXXXII 

MELANCHOL  Y 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights, 

As  short  as  are  the  nights 

Wherein  you  spend  your  folly : 

There's  nought  in  this  life  sweet 

If  man  were  wise  to  see't, 

But  only  melancholy, 

O  sweetest  Melancholy  ! 
Welcome,  folded  arms,  and  fixed  eyes, 
A  sigh  that  piercing  mortifies, 
A  look  that's  fasten'd  to  the  ground, 
A  tongue  chain'd  up  without  a  sound  ! 
Fountain-heads  and  pathless  groves, 
Places  which  pale  passion  loves  ! 
Moonlight  walks,  when  all  the  fowls 
Are  warmly  housed  save  bats  and  owls  ! 
A  midnight  bell,  a  parting  groan  ! 
These  are  the  sounds  we  feed  upon  ; 
Then  stretch  our  bones  in  a  still  gloomy  valley  ; 
Nothing's  so  dainty  sweet  as  lovely  melancholy. 

/.  Ftotk* 


'04  BOOK 

CXXXIII 

FORSAKEN 

0  wa.y  waly  up  the  bank, 

And  waly  waly  down  the  brae, 
And  waly  waly  yon  burn-side 

Where  I  and  my  Love  wont  to  gae  ! 
_  leant  my  back  unto  an  aik, 

I  thought  it  was  a  trusty  tree  ; 
But  first  it  bow'd,  and  syne  it  brak, 

Sae  my  true  Love  did  lichtly  me. 

O  waly  waty,  but  love  be  bonny 

A  little  time  while  it  is  new  ; 
But  when  'tis  auld,  it  waxeth  cauld 

And  fades  awa'  like  morning  dew. 
O  wherefore  should  I  busk  my  head  ? 

Or  wherefore  should  I  kame  my  hair  ? 
For  my  true  Love  has  me  forsook, 

And  says  he'll  never  loe  me  mair. 

Now  Arthur-seat  sail  be  my  bed  ; 

The  sheets  shall  ne'er  be  prest  by  me  : 
Saint  Anton's  well  sail  be  my  drink, 

Since  my  true  Love  has  forsaken  me. 
Marti'mas  wind,  when  wilt  thou  blaw 

And  shake  the  green  leaves  aff  the  tree  ? 
O  gentle  Death,  when  wilt  thou  come  ? 

For  of  my  life  I  am  wearie. 

'Tis  not  the  frost,  that  freezes  fell, 

Nor  blawing  snaw's  inclemencie  ; 
'Tis  not  sic  cauld  that  makes  me  cry, 

But  my  Love's  heart  grown  cauld  to  me. 
When  we  came  in  by  Glasgow  town 

We  were  a  comely  sight  to  see  ; 
My  Love  was  clad  in  the  black  velvet, 

And  I  mysell  in  cramasie. 


SECOND 

But  had  I  wist,  before  I  kist, 

That  love  had  been  sae  ill  to  win  ; 
I  had  lockt  my  heart  in  a  case  of  gowd 

And  pinn'd  it  with  a  siller  pin. 
And,  O  !  if  my  young  babe  were  born, 

And  set  upon  the  nurse's  knee, 
And  I  mysell  were  dead  and  gane, 

And  the  green  grass  growing  over  me  ! 

Anon. 


CXXXIV 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 
And  sucks  upon  my  breast ; 
Meantime  his  love  maintains  my  life 
And  gives  my  sense  her  rest. 
Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

When  thou  hast  taken  thy  repast, 

Repose,  my  babe,  on  me  ; 

So  may  thy  mother  and  thy  nurse 

Thy  cradle  also  be. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

I  grieve  that  duty  doth  not  work 
All  that  my  wishing  would, 
Because  I  would  not  be  to  thee 
But  in  the  best  I  should. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

Yet  as  I  am,  and  as  I  may, 

I  must  and  will  be  thine, 

Though  all  too  little  for  thy  self 

Vouchsafing  to  be  mine. 

Sing  lullaby,  my  little  boy, 
Sing  lullaby,  mine  only  joy  ! 

Anon. 


106  BOOK 

cxxxv 
FAIR  HELEN 

\  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies ; 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea  ! 

Curst  be  the  heart  that  thought  the  thought, 
And  curst  the  hand  that  fired  the  shot, 
When  in  my  arms  burd  Helen  dropt, 
And  died  to  succour  me  ! 

0  think  na  but  my  heart  was  sair 

When  my  Love  dropt  down  and  spak  nae  mair  ! 

1  laid  her  down  wi'  meikle  care 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

As  I  went  down  the  water-side, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

None  but  my  foe  to  be  my  guide, 

On  fair  Kirconnell  lea ; 

I  lighted  down  my  sword  to  draw, 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 
I  hacked  him  in  pieces  sma', 

For  her  sake  that  died  for  me. 

O  Helen  fair,  beyond  compare  ! 
I'll  make  a  garland  of  thy  hair 
Shall  bind  my  heart  for  evermair 
Until  the  day  I  die. 

O  that  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ! 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries  ; 
Out  of  my  bed  she  bids  me  rise, 

Says,  '  Haste  and  come  to  me  ! ' 

O  Helen  fair  !  O  Helen  chaste  ! 
If  I  were  with  thee,  I  were  blest, 
Where  thou  lies  low  and  takes  thy  rest 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 


SECOND  107 


I  wish  my  grave  were  growing  green, 
A  winding-sheet  drawn  ower  my  een, 
And  I  in  Helen's  arms  lying, 
On  fair  Kirconnell  lea. 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies  ,, 
Night  and  day  on  me  she  cries ; 
And  I  am  weary  of  the  skies, 
Since  my  Love  died  for  me. 

Anon. 


cxxxvi 
THE  TWA  CORBIES 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 

I  heard  twa  corbies  making  a  mane  ; 

The  tane  unto  the  t'other  say, 

*  Where  sail  we  gang  and  dine  today  ? ' 

' — In  behint  yon  auld  fail  dyke, 
I  wot  there  lies  a  new-slain  Knight ; 
And  naebody  kens  that  he  lies  there, 
But  his  hawk,  his  hound,  and  lady  fair. 

'  His  hound  is  to  the  hunting  gane, 
His  hawk  to  fetch  the  wild-fowl  hame, 
His  lady's  ta'en  another  mate, 
So  we  may  mak  our  dinner  sweet. 

*  Ye'll  sit  on  his  white  hause-bane, 
And  I'll  pick  out  his  bonnie  blue  een  : 
Wi'  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 

We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  grows  bare. 

*  Mony  a  one  for  him  makes  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane  ; 
O'er  his  white  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair.' 

Anon. 


io8  BOOK 


CXXXVII 

ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  MR.    WILLIAM 
HERVEY 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night, — 

Scarce  could  the  Morn  drive  on  th'  unwilling  light, 

When  sleep,  death's  image,  left  my  troubled  breast 

By  something  liker  death  possest. 
My  eyes  with  tears  did  uncommanded  flow, 

And  on  my  soul  hung  the  dull  weight 

Of  some  intolerable  fate. 
What  bell  was  that  ?  Ah  me  !  Too  much  I  know  ! 

My  sweet  companion,  and  my  gentle  peer, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  thus  unkindly  here, 
Thy  end  for  ever,  and  my  life,  to  moan  ? 

O  thou  hast  left  me  all  alone  ! 
Thy  soul  and  body,  when  death's  agony 
Besieged  around  thy  noble  heart, 
Did  not  with  more  reluctance  part 
Than  I,  my  dearest  friend,  do  part  from  thee. 

Ye  fields  of  Cambridge,  our  dear  Cambridge,  say, 

Have  ye  not  seen  us,  walking  every  day  ? 

Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? 

Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade, 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join, 
And  into  darksome  shades  combine, 

Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid. 

Large  was  his  soul  ;  as  large  a.  soul  as  e'er 

Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here  ; 

High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heaven  to  have, 

But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave  ; 
So  high  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come 

As  to  the  chiefest  seat 

Conspicuous,  and  great  ; 
So  low  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. 


SECOND  109 

Knowledge  he  only  sought,  and  so  soon  caught, 
As  if  for  him  knowledge  had  rather  sought ; 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
Whene'er  the  skilful  youth  discoursed  or  writ, 

Still  did  the  notions  throng 

About  his  eloquent  tongue  ; 
Nor  could  his  ink  flow  faster  than  his  wit. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various  wit, 

Yet  never  did  his  God  or  friends  forget. 

And  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in  view, 

Retired,  and  gave  to  them  their  due. 
For  the  rich  help  of  books  he  always  took, 

Though  his  own  searching  mind  before 

Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er, 
As  if  wise  Nature  had  made  that  her  book. 

With  as  much  zeal,  devotion,  piety, 
He  always  lived,  as  other  saints  do  die. 
Still  with  his  soul  severe  account  he  kept, 

Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept. 
Then  down  in  peace  and"  innocence  he  lay, 

Like  the  sun's  laborious  light, 

Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night, 
Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

A.   Cow  ley 


CXXXVIII 

FRIENDS  IN  PARADISE 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light ! 

And  I  alone  sit  lingering  here  ; 
Their  very  memory  is  fair  and  bright, 

And  my  sad  thoughts  doth  clear  : — 

It  glows  and  glitters  in  my  cloudy  breast, 
Like  stars  upon  some  gloomy  grove, 
Or  those  faint  beams  in  which  this  hill  is  drest, 
After  the  sun's  remove. 


iio  BOOK 

I  see  them  walking  in  an  air  of  glory, 

Whose  light  doth  trample  on  my  days  : 

My  days,  which  are  at  best  but  dull  and  hoary, 

Mere  glimmering  and  decays. 

O  holy  Hope  !  and  high  Humility, 

High  as  the  heavens  above  ! 

These  are  your  walks,  and  you  have  shew'd   them 
me, 
To  kindle  my  cold  love. 

Dear,  beauteous  Death  !  the  jewel  of  the  just 

Shining  no  where,  but  in  the  dark  ; 
What  mysteries  do  lie  beyond  thy  dust, 
Could  man  outlook  that  mark  ! 

He  that,  hath  found  some  fledged  bird's   nest,   may 

know 

At  first  sight,  if  the  bird  be  flown  ; 

But  what  fair  well  or  grove  he  sings  in  now, 

That  is  to  him  unknown. 

And  yet,  as  Angels  in  some  brighter  dreams 
Call  to  the  soul,  when  man  doth  sleep  ; 
So    some    strange    thoughts    transcend   our   wonted 
themes, 

And  into  glory  peep. 

H.    Vaughan 


CXXXIX 

TO  BLOSSOMS 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 
Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 
Your  date  is  not  so  past, 

But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile 
To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 


SECOND  ill 

What,  were  ye  born  to  be 

An  hour  or  half  s  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good-night  ? 
'Twas  pity  Nature  brought  ye  forth 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave : 
And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride 
Like  you,  awhile,  they  glide 
Into  the  grave. 

R.  Herrick 


CXL 

TO  DAFFODILS 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 

You  haste  away  so  soon  : 
As  yet. the  early-rising  Sun 

Has  not  attain'd  his  noon. 
Stay,  stay, 

Until  the  hasting  day 
Has  run 

But  to  the  even-song  ; 
And,  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay,  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  Spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay 
As  you,  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away 

Like  to  the  Summer's  rain  ; 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

R.  Herrick 


112  BOOK 


CXLI 


THE  GIRL  DESCRIBES  HER  FAWN 


With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 

I  it  at  my  own  fingers  nursed  ; 

And  as  it  grew,  so  every  day 

It  wax'd  more  white  and  sweet  than  they — 

It  had  so  sweet  a  breath  !  and  oft 

I  blush'd  to  see  its  foot  more  soft 

And  white,— shall  I  say, — than  my  hand? 

Nay,  any  lady's  of  the  land  ! 

It  is  a  wondrous  thing  how  fleet 
'Twas  on  those  little  silver  feet : 
With  what  a  pretty  skipping  grace  . 
It  oft  would  challenge  me  the  race  :— 
And  when  't  had  left  me  far  away 
'Twould  stay,  and  run  again,  and  stay : 
For  it  was  nimbler  much  than  hinds, 
And  trod  as  if  on  the  four  winds. 


I  have  a  garden  of  my  own, 

But  so  with  roses  overgrown 

And  lilies,  that  you  would  it  guess 

To  be  a  little  wilderness  : 

And  all  the  spring-time  of  the  year 

It  only  lov£d  to  be  there. 

Among  the  beds  of  lilies  I 

Have  sought  it  oft,  where  it  should  lie ; 

Yet  could  not,  till  itself  would  rise, 

Find  it,  although  before  mine  eyes  : — 

For  in  the  flaxen  lilies'  shade 

It  like  a  bank  of  lilies  laid. 


SECOND 

Upon  the  roses  it  would  feed, 
Until  its  lips  e'en  seem'd  to  bleed  : 
And  then  to  me  'twould  boldly  trip, 
And  print  those  roses  on  my  lip. 
But  all  its  chief  delight  was  still 
On  roses  thus  itself  to  fill, 
And  its  pure  virgin  limbs  to  fold 
In  whitest  sheets  of  lilies  cold  : — 
Had  it  lived  long,  it  would  have  been 
Lilies  without — roses  within. 

A.  Marvell 


CXLII  v/ 

THOUGHTS  IN  A  GARDEN 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 
To  win  the  palm,  the  oak,  or  bays, 
And  their  uncessant  labours  see 
Crown'd  from  some  single  herb  or  tree, 
Whose  short  and  narrow-verged  shade 
Does  prudently  their  toils  upbraid  ; 
While  all  the  flowers  and  trees  do  close 
To  weave  the  garlands  of  Repose. 

Fair  Quiet,  have  I  found  thee  here, 
And  Innocence  thy  sister  dear  ! 
Mistaken  long,  I  sought  you  then 
In  busy  companies  of  men  : 
Your  sacred  plants,  if  here  below, 
Only  among  the  plants  will  grow  : 
Society  is  all  but  rude 
To  this  delicious  solitude. 

No  white  nor  red  was  ever  seen 
So  amorous  as  this  lovely  green. 
Fond  lovers,  cruel  as  their  flame, 
Cut  in  these  trees  their  mistress'  name  : 
Little,  alas,  they  know  or  heed 
How  far  these  beauties  hers  exceed  ! 
Fair  trees  !  wheres'e'er  your  barks  I  wound, 
No  name  shall  but  your  own  be  found 
I 


H4  BOOK 

When  we  have  run  our  passions'  heat 
Love  hither  makes  his  best  retreat : 
The  gods,  who  mortal  beauty  chase, 
Still  in  a  tree  did  end  their  race  ; 
Apollo  hunted  Daphne  so 
Only  that  she  might  laurel  grow  ; 
And  Pan  did  after  Syrinx  speed 
Not  as  a  nymph,  but  for  a  reed. 

What  wondrous  life  is  this  I  lead  ! 
Ripe  apples  drop  about  my  head  ; 
The  luscious  clusters  of  the  vine 
Upon  my  mouth  do  crush  their  wine 
The  nectarine  and  curious  peach 
Into  my  hands  themselves  do  reach  ; 
Stumbling  on  melons,  as  I  pass, 
Ensnared  with  flowers,  I  fall  on  grass. 

Meanwhile  the  mind  from  pleasure  less 

Withdraws  into  its  happiness  ; 

The  mind,  that  ocean  where  each  kind 

Does  straight  its  own  resemblance  find  ; 

Yet  it  creates,  transcending  these, 

Far  other  worlds,  and  other  seas  ; 

Annihilating  all  that's  made 

To  a  green  thought  in  a  green  shade. 

Here  at  the  fountain's  sliding  foot 
Or  at  some  fruit-tree's  mossy  root, 
Casting  the  body's  vest  aside 
My  soul  into  the  boughs  does  glide  ; 
There,  like  a  bird,  it  sits  and  sings, 
Then  whets  and  claps  its  silver  wings, 
And,  till  prepared  for  longer  flight, 
Waves  in  its  plumes  the  various  light. 

Such  was  that  happy  Garden-state 
While  man  there  walk'd  without  a  mate  : 
After  a  place  so  pure  and  sweet, 
What  other  help  could  yet  be  meet  ! 
But  'twas  beyond  a  mortal's  share 
To  wander  soli  ary  there  : 


SECOND  115 

Two  paradises  'twere  in  one, 
To  live  in  Paradise  alone. 

How  well  the  skilful  gardener  drew 
Of  flowers  and  herbs  this  dial  new  ! 
Where,  from  above,  the  milder  sun 
Does  through  a  fragrant  zodiac  run  : 
And,  as  it  works,  th'  industrious  bee 
Computes  its  time  as  well  as  we. 
How  could  such  sweet  and  wholesome  hours 
Be  reckon'd,  but  with  herbs  and  flowers  ! 

A.  Marvell 

CXLIII 

FORTUNATI  NIMIUM 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill, 

But  loving  live,  and  merry  still  ; 

Do  their  week-day's  work,  and  pray 

Devoutly  on  the  holy-day  : 

Skip  and  trip  it  on  the  green, 

And  help  to  choose  the  Summer  Queen  ; 

Lash  out  at  a  country  feast 

Their  silver  penny  with  the  best. 

Well  can  they  judge  of  nappy  ale, 

And  tell  at  large  a  winter  tale  ; 

Climb  up  to  the  apple  loft, 

And  turn  the  crabs  till  they  be  soft. 

Tib  is  all  the  father's  joy, 

And  little  Tom  the  mother's  boy  : — 

All  their  pleasure  is,  Content, 

And  care,  to  pay  their  yearly  rent. 

Joan  can  call  by  name  her  cows 
And  deck  her  windows  with  green  boughs ; 
She  can  wreaths  and  tutties  make, 
And  trim  with  plums  a  bridal  cake. 
Jack  knows  what  brings  gain  or  loss, 
And  his  long  flail  can  stoutly  toss  : 
Makes  the  hedge  which  others  break, 
And  ever  thinks  what  he  doth  speak. 
I   2 


n6  BOOK 

— Now,  you  courtly  darnes  and  knights, 
That  study  only  strange  delights, 
Though  you  scorn  the  homespun  gray, 
And  revel  in  your  rich  array  ; 
Though  your  tongues  dissemble  deep 
And  can  your  heads  from  danger  keep  ; 
Yet,  for  all  your  pomp  and  train, 
Securer  lives  the  silly  swain  ! 

T.  Campion 


CXLIV 

^ALLEGRO 

Hence,  loathed  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus  and  blackest  Midnight  born 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn 

'Mongst    horrid   shapes,    and   shrieks,  and  sights 

unholy  ! 
Find  out  some  uncouth  cell 

Where  brooding  Darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings 
And  the  night-raven  sings  ; 

There  under  ebon  shades,  and  low-brow'd  rocks 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks, 

In  dark  Cimmerian  desert  ever  dwell. 

But  come,  thou  Goddess  fair  and  free, 
In  heaven  yclept  Euphrosyne, 
And  by  men,  heart-easing  Mirth, 
Whom  lovely  Venus  at  a  birth 
With  two  sister  Graces  more 
To  ivy-crowned  Bacchus  bore  ; 
Or  whether  (as  some  sager  sing) 
The  frolic  wind  that  breathes  the  spring 
Zephyr,  with  Aurora  playing, 
As  he  met  her  once  a- Maying — 
There  on  beds  of  violets  blue 
And  fresh-blown  roses  wash  d  in  dew 
Fill'd  her  with  thee,  a  daughter  fair, 
So  buxom,  blithe,  and  debonair. 


SECOND  117 

Haste  thee,  Nymph,  and  bring  with  thee 
Test,  and  youthful  jollity, 
Quips,  and  cranks,  and  wanton  wiles, 
Nods,  and  becks,  and  wreathed  smiles 
Such  as  hang  on  Hebe's  cheek, 
And  love  to  live  in  dimple  sleek  ; 
Sport  that  wrinkled  Care  derides, 
And  Laughter  holding  both  his  sides  ;— 
Come,  and  trip  it  as  you  go 
On  the  light  fantastic  toe  ; 
And  in  thy  right  hand  lead  with  thee 
The  mountain-nymph,  sweet  Liberty  ; 
And  if  I  give  thee  honour  due 
Mirth,  admit  me  of  thy  crew, 
To  live  with  her,  and  live  with  thee 
In  unreproved  pleasures  free  ; 
To  hear  the  lark  begin  his  flight 
And  singing  startle  the  dull  night 
From  his  watch-tower  in  the  skies, 
Till  the  dappled  dawn  doth  rise  ; 
Then  to  come,  in  spite  of  sorrow, 
And  at  my  window  bid  good-morrojfc. 
Through  the  sweetbriar,  or  the  vine, 
Or  the  twisted  eglantine  : 
While  the  cock  with  lively  din 
Scatters  the  rear  of  darkness  thin, 
And  to  the  stack,  or  the  barn-door, 
Stoutly  struts  his  dames  before  : 
Oft  listening  how  the  hounds  and  horn 
Cheerly  rouse  the  slumbering  morn, 
From  the  side  of  some  hoar  hill, 
Through  the  high  wood  echoing  shrill ; 
Sometime  walking,  not  unseen, 
By  hedge-row  elms,  on  hillocks  green, 
Right  against  the  eastern  gate 
Where  the  great  Sun  begins  his  state 
Robed  in  flames  and  amber  light, 
The  clouds  in  thousand  liveries  dight  5 
While  the  ploughman,  near  at  hand, 
Whistles  o'er  the  furrow'd  land, 
And  the  milkmaid  singeth  blithe, 
And  the  mower  whets  his  scythe, 


i8  BOOK 

And  every  shepherd  tells  his  tale 
Under  the  hawthorn  in  the  dale. 

Straight  mine  eye  hath  caught  new  pleasure* 
Whilst  the  landscape  round  it  measures ; 
Russet  lawns,  and  fallows  gray, 
Where  the  nibbling  flocks  do  stray  ; 
Mountains,  on  whose  barren  breast 
The  labouring  clouds  do  often  rest ; 
Meadows  trim  with  daisies  pied, 
Shallow  brooks,  and  rivers  wide  ; 
Towers  and  battlements  it  sees 
Bosom'd  high  in  tufted  trees, 
Where  perhaps  some  Beauty  lies, 
The  Cynosure  of  neighbouring  eyes. 

Hard  by,  a  cottage  chimney  smokes 
From  betwixt  two  aged  oaks, 
Where  Corydon  and  Thyrsis,  met, 
Are  at  their  savoury  dinner  set 
Of  herbs,  and  other  country  messes 
Which  the  neat-handed  Phillis  dresses  ; 
And  then  in  haste  her  bower  she  leaves 
With  Thestylis  to  bind  the  sheaves  ; 
Or,  if  the  earlier  season  lead, 
To  the  tann'd  haycock  in  the  mead. 

Sometimes  with  secure  delight 
The  upland  hamlets  will  invite, 
When  the  merry  bells  ring  round, 
And  the  jocund  rebecks  sound 
To  many  a  youth  and  many  a  maid, 
Dancing  in  the  chequer'd  shade ; 
And  young  and  old  come  forth  to  play 
On  a  sun-shine  holyday, 
Till  the  live-long  day-light  fail : 
Then  to  the  spicy  nut-brown  ale, 
With  stories  told  of  many  a  feaf, 
How  Faery  Mab  the  junkets  eat  : — 
She  was  pinch'd,  and  pull'd,  she  said  ? 
And  he,  by  Friar's  lantern  led  ; 
Tells  how  the  drudging  Goblin  sweat 
To  earn  his  cream -bowl  duly  set, 
When  in  one  night,  ere  glimpse  of  morn, 
His  shadowy  flail  hath  thresh'd  the  corn 


SECOND  119 

That  ten  day-labourers  could  not  end  ; 
Then  lies  him  down  the  lubber  fiend, 
And,  stretch'd  out  all  the  chimney's  length, 
Basks  at  the  fire  his  hairy  strength  ; 
And  crop-full  out  of  doors  he  flings, 
Ere  the  first  cock  his  matin  rings. 

Thus  done  the  tales,  to  bed  they  creep, 
By  whispering  winds  soon  lull'd  asleep. 

Tower' d  cities  please  us  then 
And  the  busy  hum  of  men, 
Where  throngs  of  knights  and  barons  bold, 
In  weeds  of  peace,  high  triumphs  hold, 
With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence,  and  judge  the  prize 
Of  wit  or  arms,  while  both  contend 
To  win  her  grace,  whom  all  commend. 
There  let  Hymen  oft  appear 
In  saffron  robe,  with  taper  clear, 
And  pomp,  and  feast,  and  revelry, 
With  mask,  and  antique  pageantry  ; 
Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream. 
Then  to  the  well-trod  stage  anon, 
If  Jonson's  learned  sock  be  on, 
Or  sweetest  Shakespeare,  Fancy's  child, 
Warble  his  native  wood- notes  wild. 

And  ever  against  eating  cares 
Lap  me  in  soft  Lydian  airs 
Married  to  immortal  verse, 
Such  as  the  meeting  soul  may  pierce 
In  notes,  with  many  a  winding  bout 
Of  linked  sweetness  long  drawn  out, 
With  wanton  heed  and  giddy  cunning, 
The  melting  voice  through  mazes  running, 
Untwisting  all  the  chains  that  tie 
The  hidden  soul  of  harmony  ; 
That  Orpheus'  self  may  heave  his  head 
From  golden  slumber,  on  a  bed 
Of  heap'd  Elysian  flowers,  and  hear 
Such  strains  as  would  have  won  the  ear 
Of  Pluto,  to  have  quite  set  free 
His  half-regain'd  Eurydice. 


t20  BOOK 

These  delights  if  thou  canst  give, 
Mirth,  with  thee  I  mean  to  live. 

/.  Milton 


CXLV 

IL  PENSEROSO 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys, 

The  brood  of  Folly  without  father  bred  I 
How  little  you  bestead 

Or  fill  the  fixed  mind  with  all  your  toys  ! 
Dwell  in  some  idle  brain, 

And  fancies  fond  with  gaudy  shapes  possess 
As  thick  and  numberless 

As  the  gay  motes  that  people  the  sunbeams, 
Or  likest  hovering  dreams, 

The  fickle  pensioners  of  Morpheus'  train. 

But  hail,  thou  goddess  sage  and  holy, 
Hail,  divinest  Melancholy  ! 
Whose  saintly  visage  is  too  bright 
To  hit  the  sense  of  human  sight, 
And  therefore  to  our  weaker  view 
O'erlaid  with  black,  staid  Wisdom's  hue  ; 
Black,  but  such  as  in  esteem 
Prince  Memnon's  sister  might  beseem, 
Or  that  starr'd  Ethiop  queen  that  strove 
To  set  her  beauty's  praise  above 
The  sea-nymphs,  and  their  powers  offended  : 
Yet  thou  art  higher  far  descended  : 
Thee  bright-hair'd  Vesta,  long  of  yore, 
To  solitary  Saturn  bore  ; 
His  daughter  she  ;  in  Saturn's  reign 
Snch  mixture  was  not  held  a  stain  : 
Oft  in  glimmering  bowers  and  glades 
He  met  her,  and  in  secret  shades 
Of  woody  Ida's  inmost  grove, 
While  yet  there  saw  no  fear  of  Jove. 


SECOND  12] 

Come,  pensive  Nun,  devout  and  pure, 
Sober,  steadfast,  and  demure, 
All  in  a  robe  of  darkest  grain 
Flowing  with  majestic  train, 
And  sable  stole  of  Cipres  lawn 
Over  thy  decent  shoulders  drawn  : 
Come,  but  keep  thy  wonted  state, 
With  even  step,  and  musing  gait, 
And  looks  commercing  with  the  skies, 
Thy  rapt  soul  sitting  in  thine  eyes  : 
There,  held  in  holy  passion  still, 
Forget  thyself  to  marble,  till 
With  a  sad  leaden  downward  cast 
Thou  fix  them  on  the  earth  as  fast : 
And  join  with  thee  calm  Peace,  and  Quiet, 
Spare  Fast,  that  oft  with  gods  doth  diet 
And  hears  the  Muses  in  a  ring 
Aye  round  about  Jove's  altar  sing  : 
A  nd  add  to  these  retired  Leisure 
That  in  trim  gardens  takes  his  pleasure  : — 
But  first  and  chiefest,  with  thee  bring 
Him  that  yon  soars  on  golden  wing 
Guiding  the  fiery-wheeled  throne, 
The  cherub  Contemplation  ; 
And  the  mute  Silence  hist  along, 
'Less  Philomel  will  deign  a  song 
In  her  sweetest  saddest  plight 
Smoothing  the  rugged  brow  of  Night, 
While  Cynthia  checks  her  dragon  yoke 
Gently  o'er  the  accustom'd  oak. 
— Sweet  bird,  that  shunn'st  the  noise  of  folly, 
Most  musical,  most  melancholy  ! 
Thee,  chaun cress,  oft,  the  woods  among 
I  woo,  to  hear  thy  even-song  ; 
And  missing  thee,  I  walk  unseen 
On  the  dry  smooth-shaven  green, 
To  behold  the  wandering  Moon 
Riding  near  her  highest  noon, 
Like  one  that  had  been  led  astray 
.  Through  the  heaven's  wide  pathless  way, 
And  oft,  as  if  her  head  she  bow'd, 
Stooping  through  a  fleecy  cloud. 


122  BOOK 

Oft,  on  a  plat  of  rising  ground 
I  hear  the  far-off  Curfeu  sound 
Over  some  wide-water'd  shore, 
Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar  : 
Or,  if  the  air  will  not  permit, 
Some  still  removed  place  will  fit, 
Where  glowing  embers  through  the  room 
Teach  light  to  counterfeit  a  gloom  ; 
Far  from  all  resort  of  mirth, 
Save  the  cricket  on  the  hearth, 
Or  the  bellman's  drowsy  charm 
To  bless  the  doors  from  nightly  harm. 

Or  let  my  lamp  at  midnight  hour 
Be  seen  in  some  high  lonely  tower, 
Where  I  may  oft  out- watch  the  Bear 
With  thrice-great  Hermes,  or  unsphere 
The  spirit  of  Plato,  to  unfold 
What  worlds  or  what  vast  regions  hold 
The  immortal  mind,  that  hath  forsook 
Her  mansion  in  this  fleshly  nook  : 
And  of  those  demons  that  are  found 
In  fire,  air,  flood,  or  under  ground, 
Whose  power  hath  a  true  consent 
With  planet,  or  with  element. 
Sometime  let  gorgeous  Tragedy 
In  scepter'd  pall  come  sweeping  by, 
Presenting  Thebes,  or  Pelops'  line, 
Or  the  tale  of  Troy  divine  ; 
Or  what  (though  rare)  of  later  age 
Ennobled  hath  the  buskin' d  stage. 

But,  O  sad  Virgin,  that  thy  power 
Might  raise  Musaeus  from  his  bower, 
Or  bid  the  soul  of  Orpheus  sing 
Such  notes  as,  warbled  to1  the  string, 
Drew  iron  tears  down  Pluto's  cheek 
And  made  Hell  grant  what  Love  did  seek  ! 
Or  call  up  him  that  left  half- told 
The  story  of  Cambuscan  bold, 
Of  Camball,  and  of  Algarsife, 
And  who  had  Canace  to  wife 
That  own'd  the  virtuous  ring  and  glass ; 
And  of  the  wondrous  horse  of  brass 


SECOND  123 

On  which  the  Tartar  king  did  ride  : 
And  if  aught  else  great  bards  beside 
In  sage  and  solemn  tunes  have  sung 
Of  turneys,  and  of  trophies  hung, 
Of  forests,  and  enchantments  drear, 
Where  more  is  meant  than  meets  the  ear. 

Thus,  Night,  oft  see  me  in  thy  pale  career 
Till  civil-suited  Morn  appear, 
Not  trick'd  and  frounced  as  she  was  wont 
With  the  Attic  Boy  to  hunt, 
But  kercheft  in  a  comely  cloud 
While  rocking  winds  are  piping  loud, 
Or  usher'd  with  a  shower  still, 
When  the  gust  hath  blown  his  fill, 
Ending  on  the  rustling  leaves 
With  minute  drops  from  off  the  eaves. 
And  when  the  sun  begins  to  fling 
His  flaring  beams,  me,  goddess,  bring 
To  arched  walks  of  twilight  groves, 
And  shadows  brown,  that  Sylvan  loves, 
Of  pine,  or  monumental  oak, 
Where  the  rude  axe,  with  heaved  stroke, 
Was  never  heard  the  nymphs  to  daunt 
Or  fright  them  from  their  hallow'd  haunt 
There  in  close  covert  by  some  brook 
Where  no  profaner  eye  may  look, 
Hide  me  from  day's  garish  eye, 
While  the  bee  with  honey'd  thigh 
That  at  her  flowery  work  doth  sing, 
And  the  waters  murmuring, 
With  such  consort  as  they  keep 
Entice  the  dewy-feather'd  Sleep  ; 
And  let  some  strange  mysterious  dream 
Wave  at  his  wings  in  airy  stream 
Of  lively  portraiture  display'd, 
Softly  on  my  eyelids  laid  : 
And,  as  I  wake,  sweet  music  breathe 
Above,  about,  or  underneath, 
Sent  by  some  Spirit  to  mortals  good, 
Or  the  unseen  Genius  of  the  wood. 

But  let  my  due  feet  never  fail 
To  walk  the  studious  cloister's  pale, 


124  BOOK 

And  love  the  high -embo wed  roof, 

With  antique  pillars  massy  proof, 

And  storied  windows  richly  dight 

Casting  a  dim  religious  light. 

There  let  the  pealing  organ  blow 

To  the  full-voiced  quire  below 

In  service  high  and  anthems  clear, 

As  may  with  sweetness,  through  mine  ear, 

Dissolve  me  into  ecstasies, 

And  bring  all  Heaven  before  mine  eyes. 

And  may  at  last  my  weary  age 
Find  out  the  peaceful  hermitage, 
The  hairy  gown  and  mossy  cell 
Where  I  may  sit  and  rightly  spell 
Of  every  star  that  heaven  doth  shew, 
And  every  herb  that  sips  the  dew  ; 
Till  old  experience  do  attain 
To  something  like  prophetic  strain. 

These  pleasures,  Melancholy,  give, 
And  I  with  thee  will  choose  to  live. 

/.   Milton 


SONG  OF  THE  EMIGRANTS  IN  BERMUDA 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 
In  the  ocean's  bosom  unespied, 
From  a  small  boat  that  row'd  along  . 
The  listening  winds  received  this  song. 

1  What  should  we  do  but  sing  His  praise 
That  led  us  through  the  watery  maze 
Where  He  the  huge  sea-monsters  wracks, 
That  lift  the  deep  upon  their  backs, 
Unto  an  isle  so  long  unknown, 
And  yet  far  kinder  than  our  own  ? 
He  lands  us  on  a  grassy  stage, 
Safe  from  the  storms,  and  prelate's  rage  ; 
He  gave  us  this  eternal  Spring 
Which  here  enamels  everything, 


SECOND 

And  sends  the  fowls  to  us  in  care 

On  daily  visits  through  the  air. 

He  hangs  in  shades  the  orange  bright 

Like  golden  lamps  in  a  green  night, 

And  does  in  the  pomegranates  close 

Jewels  more  rich  than  Ormus  shows  : 

He  makes  the  figs  our  mouths  to  meet 

And  throws  the  melons  at  our  feet ; 

But  apples  plants  of  such  a  price, 

No  tree  could  ever  bear  them  twice. 

With  cedars  chosen  by  His  hand 

From  Lebanon  He  stores  the  land ; 

And  makes  the  hollow  seas  that  roar 

Proclaim  the  ambergris  on  shore. 

He  cast  (of  which  we  rather  boast) 

The  Gospel's  pearl  upon  our  coast ; 

And  in  these  rocks  for  us  did  frame 

A  temple  where  to  sound  His  name. 

Oh  !  let  our  voice  His  praise  exalt 

Till  it  arrive  at  Heaven's  valt, 

Which  thence  (perhaps)  rebounding  may 

Echo  beyond  the  Mexique  bay  ! ' 

— Thus  sung  they  in  the  English  boat 

A  holy  and  a  cheerful  note  : 

And  all  the  way,  to  guide  their  chime, 

With  falling  oars  they  kept  the  time. 

A.  Marvel  I 


CXLVII 

AT  A  SOLEMN  MUSIC 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy, 
Sphere-born  harmonious  Sisters,  Voice  and  Verse 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixt  power  employ, 
Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce  ; 
And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  Song  of  pure  concent 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colour'd  throne 
To  Him  that  sits  thereon, 


\26  BOOK 

With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee  ; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow  ; 
And  the  Cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  Spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms, 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly : 
That  we  on  Earth,  with  undiscording  voice 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise  ; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion'd  sin 
Jarr'd  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  sway'd 
In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  Song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  His  celestial  consort  us  unite, 
To  live  with  Him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light ! 

/.  Milton 


CXLVIH 
NOX  NOCT1  INDICAT  SCIENTIAM 

When  I  survey  the  bright 

Celestial  sphere  : 

So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 
Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear  ; 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heaven-ward  flies, 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 
In  the  large  volumes  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 

Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 
In  speaking  :he  Creator's  name, 


SECOND  127 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  a  character, 
Removed  far  from  our  human  sight, 

But  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 
In  it  as  in  some  holy  book, 
How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 

It  tells  the  Conqueror, 

That  far-stretch'd  power 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 
Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour. 

That  from  the  farthest  North 

Some  nation  may 
Yet  undiscover'd  issue  forth, 
And  o*er  his  new-got  conquest  sway. 

Some  nation  yet  shut  in 

With  hills  of  ice, 
May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  then  they  likewise  shall 

Their  ruin  have  ; 

For  as  yourselves  your  Empires  fall, 
And  every  Kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

Thus  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires 
And  all  the  pride  of  life,  confute. 

For  they  have  watch'd  since  first 

The  world  had  birth  : 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accursed, 
And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 

W.  Habington 


128  BOOK 


CXLIX 

HYMN  TO  DARKNESS 

Hail  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing  ! 
What  Muse  is  worthy  thee  to  sing  ? 
Thee,  from  whose  pregnant  universal  womb 
All  things,  ev'n  Light,  thy  rival,  first  did  come= 
What  dares  he  not  attempt  that  sings  of  thee, 

Thou  first  and  greatest  mystery  ? 
Who  can  the  secrets  of  thy  essence  tell  ? 
Thou,  like  the  light  of  God,  art  inaccessible. 

Before  great  Love  this  monument  did  raise 

This  ample  theatre  of  praise  ; 
Before  the  folding  circles  of  the  sky 
Were  tuned  by  Him,  Who  is  all  harmony  ; 
Before  the  morning  Stars  their  hymn  began, 

Before  the  council  held  for  man, 
Before  the  birth  of  either  time  or  place, 
Thou   reign'st   unquestion'd    monarch   in   the  empt) 
space. 

Thy  native  lot  thou  didst  to  Light  resign, 

But  still  half  of  the  globe  is  thine. 
Here  with  a  quiet,  but  yet  awful  hand, 
Like  the  best  emperors  thou  dost  command. 
To  thee  the  stars  above  their  brightness  owe, 

And  mortals  their  repose  below  : 
To  thy  protection  fear  and  sorrow  flee, 
And  those  that  weary  are  of  light,  find  rest  in  thee. 
J.  Norris  of  Bemerton 


SECOND  .  129 

CL 

A    VISION- 

I  saw  Eternity  the  other  night, 

Like  a  great  ring  of  pure  and  endless  light, 

All  calm,  as  it  was  bright : — 
And  round  beneath  it,  Time,  in  hours,  days,  years. 

Driven  by  the  spheres, 
Like  a  vast  shadow  moved ;  in  which  the  World 

And  all  her  train  were  hurl'd. 

H.    Vaughan 


ALEXANDERS  FEAST,    OR,   THE  POWER 
OF  MUSIC 

'T was  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 
By  Philip's  warlike  son — 
Aloft  in  awful  state 
The  godlike  hero  sate 
On  his  imperial  throne  ; 
His  valiant  peers  were  placed  around, 
Their  brows  with  roses  and  with  myrtles  bound, 
(So  should  desert  in  arms  be  crowr'd)  ; 
The  lovely  Thais  by  his  side 
Sate  like  a  blooming  Eastern  bride 
In  flower  of  youth  and  beauty's  pride  : — 
Happy,  happy,  happy  pair  ! 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave 
None  but  the  brave  deserves  the  fair  ! 

Timotheus  placed  on  high 
Amid  the  tuneful  quire 
With  flying  fingers  touch'd  the  lyre  : 
The  trembling  notes  ascend  the  sky 
And  heavenly  joys  inspire. 
The  song  began  from  Jove 
Who  left  his  blissful  seats  above  — 
K 


1 30  BOOK 

Such  is  the  power  of  mighty  love  ! 

A  dragon's  fiery  form  belied  the  god  ; 

Sublime  on  radiant  spires  he  rode 

When  he  to  fair  Olympia  prest, 

And  while  he  sought  her  snowy  breast, 

Then  round  her  slender  waist  he  curl'd, 

And  stamp'd  an  image  of  himself,  a  sovereign  of  the 

-    world. 

— The  listening  crowd  admire  the  lofty  sound  ; 
A  present  deity  !  they  shout  around  : 
A  present  deity  !  the  vaulted  roofs  rebound  : 
With  ravish'd  ears 
The  monarch  hears, 
Assumes  the  god  ; 
Affects  to  nod 
And  seems  to  shake  the  spheres. 

The  praise  of   Bacchus   then  the  sweet  musician 

sung, 

Of  Bacchus  ever  fair  and  ever  young  : 
The  jolly  god  in  triumph  comes  ; 
Sound  the  trumpets,  beat  the  drums  ! 
Flush'd  with  a  purple  grace 
He  shows  his  honest  face  : 

Now  give  the  hautboys  breath  ;  he  comes,  he  comes  ! 
Bacchus,  ever  fair  and  young, 
Drinking  joys  did  first  ordain  ; 
Bacchus'  blessings  are  a  treasure, 
Drinking  is  the  soldier's  pleasure  : 
Rich  the  treasure, 
Sweet  the  pleasure, 
Sweet  is  pleasure  after  pain. 

Soothed  with,  the  sound,  the  king  grew  vain  ; 
Fought  all  his  battles  o'er  again, 
And  thrice  he  routed  all  his  foes,  and  thrice  he  slew 

the  slain  ! 

The  master  saw  the  madness  rise, 
His  glowing  cheeks,  his  ardent  eyes  ; 
And  while  he  Heaven  and  Earth  defied 
Changed  his  hand  and  check'd  his  pride. 
He  chose  a  mournful  Muse 
Soft  pity  to  infuse : 


SECOND  131 

He  sung  Darius  great  and  good, 

By  too  severe  a  fate 

Fallen,  fallen,  fallen,  fallen, 

Fallen  from  his  high  estate. 

And  weltering  in  his  blood  ; 

Deserted  at  his  utmost  need 

By  those  his  former  bounty  fed  ; 

On  the  bare  earth  exposed  he  lies 

With  not  a  friend  to  close  his  eyes. 

— With  downcast  looks  the  joyless  victor  sate, 

Revolving  in  his  alter'd  soul 

The  various  turns  of  Chance  below  ; 

And  now  and  then  a  sigh  he  stole, 

And  tears  began  to  flow. 

The  mighty  master  smiled  to  see 
That  love  was  in  the  next  degree ; 
'Twas  but  a  kindred-sound  to  move, 
For  pity  melts  the  mind  to  love. 
Softly  sweet,  in  Lydian  measures 
Soon  he  soothed  his  soul  to  pleasures. 
War,  he  sung,  is  toil  and  trouble, 
Honour  but  an  empty  bubble  ; 
Never  ending,  still  beginning, 
Fighting  still,  and  still  destroying  ; 
If  the  world  be  worth  thy  winning, 
Think,  O  think,  it  worth  enjoying : 
Lovely  Thais  sits  beside  thee, 
Take  the  good  the  gods  provide  thee  ! 
— The  many  rend  the  skies  with  loud  applause  ; 
So  Love  was  crown'd,  but  Music  won  the  cause, 
The  prince,  unable  to  conceal  his  pain, 
Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 

And  sigh'd  and  iook'd,  sigh'd  and  look'd, 
Sigh'd  and  look'd,  and  sighM  again  : 
At  length  with  love  and  wine  at  once  opprest 
The  vanquish'd  victor  sunk  upon  her  breast. 

Now  strike  the  golden  lyre  again  : 
A  louder  yet,  and  yet  a  louder  strain  ! 
Break  his  bands  of  sleep  asunder 
And  rouse  him  like  a  rattling  peal  of  thund 


132  BOOK  SECOND 

Hark,  hark  !  the  horrid  sound 

Has  raised  up  his  head  : 

As  awaked  from  the  dead 

And  amazed  he  stares  around. 

Revenge,  revenge,  Timotheus  cries, 

See  the  Furies  arise  ! 

See  the  snakes  that  they  rear 

How  they  hiss  in  their  hair, 

And  the  sparkles  that  flash  trom  their  eyes  I 

Behold  a  ghastly  band, 

Each  a  torch  in  his  hand  ! 

Those  are  Grecian  ghosts,  that  in  battle  were  slain 

And  unburied  remain 

Inglorious  on  the  plain  : 

Give  the  vengeance  due 

To  the  valiant  crew  ! 

Behold  how  they  toss  their  torches  on  high, 

How  they  point  to  the  Persian  abodes 

And  glittering  temples  of  their  hostile  gods. 

—The  princes  applaud  with  a  furious  joy  : 

And    the    King    seized   a   flambeau   with   zeal   to 

destroy  ; 

Thais  led  the  way 
To  light  him  to  his  prey, 
And  like  another  Helen,  fired  another  Troy  ! 

— Thus,  long  ago, 

Ere  heaving  bellows  learn'd  to  blow, 
While  organs  yet  were  mute, 
Timotheus,  to  his  breathing  flute 
And  sounding  lyre 

Could  swell  the  soul  to  rage,  or  kindle  soft  desire. 
At  last  divine  Cecilia  came. 
Inventress  of  the  vocal  frame  ; 
The  sweet  enthusiast  from  her  sacred  store 
Enlarged  the  former  narrow  bounds, 
And  added  length  to  solemn  sounds, 
With  Nature's  mother- wit,  and  arts  unknown  before 
— Let  old  Timotheus  yield  the  prize 
Or  both  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  raised  a  mortal  to  the  skies  ; 
She  drew  an  angel  down  ! 

/.   Dryden 


§00k  Cjririr 


ODE  ON  THE  PLEASURE  ARISING 
VICISSITUDE 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 

Waves  her  dew -bespangled  wing, 
With  vermeil  cheek  and  whisper  soft 

She  woos  the  tardy  Spring  : 
Till  April  starts,  and  calls  around 
The  sleeping  fragrance  from  the  ground, 
And  lightly  o'er  the  living  scene 
Scatters  his  freshest,  tenderest  green. 

New-born  flocks,  in  rustic  dance, 

Frisking  ply  their  feeble  feet ; 
Forgetful  of  their  wintry  trance 
The  birds  his  presence  greet : 
But  chief,  the  sky-lark  warbles  high 
His  trembling  thrilling  ecstasy  ; 
And  lessening  from  the  dazzled  sight, 
Melts  into  air  and  liquid  light. 

Yesterday  the  sullen  year 

Saw  the  snowy  whirlwind  fly  ; 
Mute  was  the  music  of  the  air, 

The  herd  stood  drooping  by  : 
Their  raptures  now  that  wildly  flow 
No  yesterday  nor  morrow  know  ; 
'Tis  Man  alone  that  joy  descries 
With  forward  and  reverted  eyes. 


134  BOOK 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow 
Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace, 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace  ; 
While  hope  prolongs  our  happier  hourp 
Or  deepest  shades,  that  dimly  lour 
And  blacken  round  our  weary  way, 
Gilds  with  a  gleam  of  distant  day. 

Still,  where  rosy  pleasure  leads, 

See  a  kindred  grief  pursue  ; 
Behind  the  steps  that  misery  treads 

Approaching  comfort  view  : 
The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastised  by  sabler  tints  of  woe, 
And  blended  form,  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life 

See  the  wretch  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  thorny  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost 

And  breathe  and  walk  again  : 
The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 
The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 
The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 
To  him  are  opening  Paradise. 

T.   Gray 

CLIII 

ODE  TO  SIMPLICITY 

O  Thou,  by  Nature  taught 

To  breathe  her  genuine  thought 
In  numbers  warmly  pure,  and  sweetly  strong  ; 

Who  first,  on  mountains  wild, 

In  Fancy,  loveliest  child, 
Thy  babe,  or  Pleasure's,  nursed  the  powers  of  song  I 

Thou,  who  with  hermit  heart, 

Disdain'st  the  wealth  of  art, 
And  gauds,  and  pageant  weeds,  and  trailing  pall, 

But  com'st,  a  decent  maid 

In  Attic  robe  array'd, 
O  chaste,  unboastful  Nymph,  to  thee  I  call  ! 


THIRD  13$ 

By  all  the  honey'd  store 

On  Hybla's  thymy  shore, 
By  all  her  blooms  and  mingled  murmurs  dear  •, 

By  her  whose  love-lorn  woe 

In  evening  musings  slow 
Soothed  sweetly  sad  Elect r a' s  poet's  ear  • 

By  old  Cephisus  deep, 

Who  spread  his  wavy  sweep 
In  warbled  wanderings  round  thy  green  retreat ; 

On  whose  enamell'd  side, 

When  holy  Freedom  died, 
No  equal  haunt  allured  thy  future  feet : — 

O  sister  meek  of  Truth, 

To  my  admiring  youth 
Thy  sober  aid  and  native  charms  infuse  ! 

The  flowers  that  sweetest  breathe, 

Though  Beauty  cull'd  the  wreath, 
Still  ask  thy  hand  to  range  their  order'd  hues. 

While  Rome  could  none  esteem 

But  Virtue's  patriot  theme, 
You  loved  her  hills,  and  led  her'  laureat  band  ; 

But  stay'd  to  sing  alone 

To  one  distinguish' d  throne  ; 
And  turn'd  thy  face,  and  fled  her  alter'd  land. 

No  more,  in  hall  or  bower, 

The  Passions  own  thy  power  ; 
Love,  only  Love,  her  forceless  numbers  mean  : 

For  thou  hast  left  her  shrine  ; 

Nor  olive  more,  nor  vine, 
Shall  gain  thy  feet  to  bless  the  servile  scene. 

Though  taste,  though  genius,  bless 

To  some  divine  excess, 
Faints  the  cold  work  till  thou  inspire  the  whole  ; 

What  each,  what  all  supply 

May  court,  may  charm  our  eye  ; 
Thou,  only  thou,  canst  raise  the  meeting  soul  ! 

Of  these  let  others  ask 
To  aid  some  mighty  task  ; 


36  BOOK 

I  only  seek  to  find  thy  temperate  vale  ; 

Where  oft  my  reed  might  sound 

To  maids  and  shepherds  round, 
And  all  thy  sons,  O  Nature  !  learn  my  tale. 

W.   Collins 

CLIV 
SOLITUDE 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 
A  few  paternal  acres  bound, 
Content  to  breathe  his  native  air 

In  his  own  ground. 

Whose  herds  with  milk,  whose  fields  with  bread. 
Whose  flocks  supply  him  with  attire  ; 
Whose  trees  in  summer  yield  him  shade, 
In  winter  fire. 

Blest,  who  can  unconcern'dly  find 
Hours,  days,  and  years,  slide  soft  away 
In  health  of  body,  peace  of  mind, 
Quiet  by  day, 

Sound  sleep  by  night ;  study  and  ease 
Together  mixt,  sweet  recreation, 
And  innocence,  which  most  does  please 
With  meditation. 

Thus  let  me  live,  unseen,  unknown  ; 
Thus  unlamented  let  me  die  ; 
Steal  from  the  world,  and  not  a  stone 
Tell  where  I  lie. 
A.  Pope 

CLV 

THE  BLIND  BOY 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light, 

Which  I  must  ne'er  enjoy  ; 
What  are  the  blessings  of  the  sight, 

O  tell  your  poor  blind  boy  ! 


THIRD  137 

You  talk  OF  wondrous  things  you  see, 

You  say  the  sun  shines  bright ; 
I  feel  him  warm,  but  how  can  he 

Or  make  it  day  or  night  ? 

My  day  or  night  myself  I  make 

Whene'er  I  sleep  or  play  ; 
And  could  I  ever  keep  awake 

With  me  'twere  always  day. 

With  heavy  sighs  I  often  hear 

You  mourn  my  hapless  woe  ; 
But  sure  with  patience  I  can  bear 

A  loss  I  ne'er  can  know. 

Then  let  not  what  I  cannot  have 

My  cheer  of  mind  destroy  : 
Whilst  thus  I  sing,  I  am  a  king, 

Although  a  poor  blind  boy. 

C.  Gibber 


ON  A  FAVOURITE  CAT,  DROWNED  IN  A 
TUB  OF  GOLD  FISHES 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side, 
Where  China's  gayest  art  had  dyed 
The  azure  flowers  that  blow, 
Demurest  of  the  tabby  kind 
The  pensive  Selima,  recli1  ed, 
Gazed  on  the  lake  below. 

Her  conscious  tail  her  joy  declared  : 
The  fair  round  face,  the  snowy  beard, 
The  velvet  of  her  paws, 
Her  coat  that  with  the  tortoise  vies, 
Her  ears  of  jet,  and  emerald  eyes — 
She  saw,  and  purr'd  applause. 

Still  had  she  gazed,  but  'midst  the  tide 
Two  angel  forms  were  seen  to  glide. 


138  BOOK 

The  Genii  of  the  stream  : 
Their  scaly  armour's  Tyrian  hue 
Through  richest  purple,  to  the  viev 
Betray'd  a  golden  gleam. 

The  hapless  Nymph  with  wonder  saw  : 

A  whisker  first,  and  then  a  claw 

With  many  an  ardent  wish 

She  stretch'd,  in  vain,  to  reach  the  prize — 

What  female  heart  can  gold  despise  ? 

What  Cat's  averse  to  fish  ? 

Presumptuous  maid  !  with  looks  intent 
Again  she  stretch'd,  again  she  bent, 
Nor  knew  the  gulf  between — 
Malignant  Fate  sat  by  and  smiled — 
The  slippery  verge  her  feet  beguiled  ; 
She  tumbled  headlong  in  ! 

Eight  times  emerging  from  the  flood 
She  mew'd  to  every  watery  God 
Some  speedy  aid  to  send  : — 
No  Dolphin  came,  no  Nereid  stirr  d, 
Nor  cruel  Tom  nor  Susan  heard — 
A  favourite  has  no  friend  ! 

From  hence,  ye  Beauties  !  undeceived 
Know  one  false  step  is  ne'er  retrieved, 
And  be  with  caution  bold  : 
Not  all  that  tempts  your  wandering  eyes 
And  heedless  hearts,  is  lawful  prize, 
Nor  all  that  glisters,  gold  ! 

T.  Gray 


CLVII 

TO  CHARLOTTE  PULTENEY 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair, 
Fondling  of  a  happy  pair, 
Every  morn  and  every  night 
Their  solicitous  delight, 
Sleeping,  waking,  still  at  ease- 


THIRD  139 

Pleasing,  without  skill  to  please  ; 

Little  gossip,  blithe  and  hale, 

Tattling  many  a  broken  tale, 

Singing  many  a  tuneless  song, 

Lavish  of  a  heedless  tongue  ; 

Simple  maiden,  void  of  art, 

Babbling  out  the  very  heart,, 

Yet  abandon'd  to  thy  will, 

Yet  imagining  no  ill, 

Yet  too  innocent  to  blush  ; 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  bush 

To  the  mother-linnet's  note 

Moduling  her  slender  throat ; 

Chirping  forth  thy  petty  joys, 

Wanton  in  the  change  of  toys, 

Like  the  linnet  green,  in  May 

Flitting  to  each  bloomy  spray  ; 

Wearied  then  and  glad  of  rest, 

Like  the  linnet  in  the  nest  :— 

This  thy  present  happy  lot 

This,  in  time  will  be  forgot  : 

Other  pleasures,  other  cares, 

Ever-busy  Time  prepares ; 
And  thou  shalt  in  thy  daughter  see, 
This  picture,  once,  resembled  thee. 

A.  Philips 

CLVIII 

RULE  BRITANNIA 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command 
»     Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  her  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  the  strain  : 
Rule,  Britannia  !  Britannia  rules  the  waves 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 
Must  in  their  turn  to  tyrants  fall, 

Whilst  thou  shalt  flourish  great  and  free 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all. 


140  BOOK 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  ; 

As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame  ; 

All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 

And  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine  ; 
All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 

And  every  shore  it  circles  thine  ! 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair  ; 
Blest  Isle,  with  matchless  beauty  crown'd 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair  : — 
Rule,  Britannia  !  Britannia  rules  the  waves  ! 
Britons  never  shall  be  slaves  ! 
J.    Thomson 


CLIX 

THE  BARD 
Pindaric  Ode 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King  ! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait  ; 
Tho'  fann'd  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  Tyrant,  shall  avail 
Tc  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears  !  * 
— Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

Of  the  first  Edward  scatter'd  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  march  his  long  array  :— 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance  i 


THIRD  141 

'  To  arms  ! '  cried  Mortimer,  and  couch'd  his  quivering 
lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  old  Conway's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood  ; 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Stream'd  like  a  meteor  to  the  troubled  air) 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre  : 

*  Hark,  how  each  giant-oak  and  desert-cave 
Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath  ! 
O'er  thee,  oh  King  !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To.  high-born  Hoel?s  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

'  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hush'd  the  stormy  main  : 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed  : 

Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  hsad. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie 
Smear'd  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale  : 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 

The  famish'd  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries — 
No  more  I  weep  ;  They  do  not  sleep  ; 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  griesly  band, 
I  see  them  sit ;  They  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line 

Weave  the  warp  and  weave  the  woof 
The  winding  sheet  of  Edward^  s  race  : 

Give  ample  room  and  verge  enough 
The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 


142  BOOK 

Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 

When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 

The  shrieks  of  death  thro*  Berkley's  roof  that  ring, 

Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king  ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  der  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven!    What   terrors   round  him 

wait ! 

Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined, 
And  sorrow ys  faded  form,  and  solitude  behind. 

f  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord, 

Low  on  his  funtral  couch  he  lie*  I 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noon-tide  beam  were  born  ? 
—  Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  Morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes  : 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm  : 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That  hushed  in  grim  repose  expects  his  evening  prey. 

*  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 
The  rich  repast  prepare  ; 

Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast: 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 

A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled guest ', 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horse  ? 

Long  years  of  havoc k  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  thro  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London  s  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  consort1  s  faith,  his  father1  s  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurpers  holy  head! 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 


THIRD  143 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spnad  ,J 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant-gore 

Wallows  beneath  the  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom* 

1  Edward,  lo  !  to  sudden  fate 

(  Weave  we  the  woof ;   The  thread  is  spun  ;) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

( The  web  is  wove  ;   The  work  is  done. ) 
— Stay,  oh  stay  !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unbless'd,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn  : 
In  yon  bright  track  that  fires  the  western  skies 
They  melt,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But  oh  !  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll  ? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight, 
Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail  : — 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings  !  Britannia's  issue,  hail  ! 

*  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 
Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear  ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 
In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 
In  the  midst  a  form  divine  ! 
Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton-line  : 
Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face 
Attemper'd  sweet  to  virgin-grace. 
What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 

What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play  ? 
Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear  ; 

They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 
Bright  Rapture  calls,  and  soaring  as  she  sings, 
Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-colour'd  wings. 

*  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  war,  and  faith  rul  love, 
And  truth  severe,  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 

In  buskin'd  measures  move 
Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain, 
With  horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast 
A  voice  as  of  the  cherub-choir 


144  BOOK 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear, 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud 

Raised  by  thy  breath,  has  quench'd  the  orb  of  day  ? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me  :  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign  : 
Be  thine  despair  and  sceptred  care, 

To  triumph  and  to  die  are  mine.' 
— He    spoke,    and    headlong    from    the    mountain's 

height 

Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 

T.  Gray 


ODE  WRITTEN  IN  1746 

How  sleep  the  brave,  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest  ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  ringers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallow'd  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung  : 
There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay  ; 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there  ! 

W.  Collins 

CLXI 
LAMENT  FOR  CULLODEN 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness, 
Nae  joy  nor  pleasure  can  she  see  ; 
For  e'en  and  morn  she  cries,  Alas  ! 
And  aye  the  saut  tear  blins  her  ee  : 
Drumossie  moor— Drumossie  day — 


THIRD  145 

A  waefu'  day  it  was  to  me  ! 
For  there  I  lost  my  father  dear, 
My  father  dear,  and  brethren  three. 

Their  winding-sheet  the  bluidy  clay, 
Their  graves  are  growing  green  to  see  i 
And  by  them  lies  the  dearest  lad 
That  ever  blest  a  woman's  ee  ! 
Now  wae  to  thee,  thou  cruel  lord, 
A  bluidy  man  I  trow  thou  be  ; 
For  mony  a  heart  thou  hast  made  sair 
That  ne'er  did  wrang  to  thine  or  thee. 

X.  Burns 

CLXII 

LAMENT  FOR  FLODDEN 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  ou»  ewe-milking, 

Lasses  a'  lilting  before  dawn  o'  day  ; 
But  now  they  are  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At    bughts,    in    the    morning,    nae    blythe  lads  are 
scorning, 

Lasses  are  lonely  and  dowie  and  wae  ; 
Nae  daffin',  nae  gabbin',  but  sighing  and  sabbing, 

Ilk  ane  lifts  her  leglin  and  hies  her  away. 

In  har'st,  at  the  shearirg,  nae  youths  now  are  jeering, 
Bandsters  are  lyart,  and  runkled,  and  gray  ; 

At  fair  or  at  preaching,  nae  wooing,  nae  fleeching — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

At  e'en,  in  the  gloaming,  nae  younkers  are  roaming 
5Bout  stacks  wi'  the  lasses  at  bogle  to  play  ; 

But  ilk  ane  sits  drearie,  lamenting  her  dearie — 
The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  weded  away. 

Dool  and  wae  for    the    order,  sent    our  lads  to  the 

Border  ! 

The  English,  for  ance,  by  guile  wan  the  day  ; 
The    Flowers   of   the    Forest,    that    fought    aye  tl>f 

foremost, 
The  prime  of  our  land,  are  cauld  in  the  clay  . 


146  BOOK 

We'll  hear  nae  mair  lilting  at  the  ewe-milking  ; 

Women  and  bairns  are  heartless  and  wae  ; 
Sighing  and  moaning  on  ilka  green  loaning — 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  are  a'  wede  away. 

/.  Ell&t 

CLXIII 

THE  BRAES  OF  YARROW 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  first  on  them  I  met  my  lover  ; 
Thy  braes  how  dreary,  Yarrow  stream, 
When  now  thy  waves  his  body  cover  ! 
For  ever  now,  O  Yarrow  stream  ! 
Thou  art  to  me  a  stream  of  sorrow  ; 
For  never  on  thy  banks  shall  I 
Behold  my  Love,  the  flower  of  Yarrow  ! 

He  promised  me  a  milk -white  steed 

To  bear  me  to  his  father's  bowers ; 

He  promised  me  a  little  page 

To  squire  me  to  his  father's  towers  ; 

He  promised  me  a  wedding-ring, — 

The  wedding-day  was  fix'd  to-morrow  ; — 

Now  he  is  wedded  to  his  grave, 

Alas,  his  watery  grave,  in  Yarrow  ! 

Sweet  were  his  words  when  last  we  met ; 
My  passion  I  as  freely  told  him  ; 
Clasp'd  in  his  arms,  I  little  thought 
That  I  should  never  more  behold  him  ! 
Scarce  was  he  gone,  I  saw  his  ghost ; 
It  vanish'd  with  a  shriek  of  sorrow  ; 
Thrice  did  the  water-wraith  ascend, 
And  gave  a  doleful  groan  thro*  Yarrow. 

His  mother  from  the  window  look'd 
With  all  the  longing  of  a  mother  ; 
His  little  sister  weeping  walk'd 
The  green- wood  path  to  meet  her  brother ; 
They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 
They  sought  him  all  the  forest  thorough ; 
They  only  saw  the  cloud  of  night, 
They  only  heard  the  roar  of  Yarrow. 


THIRD  147 

No  longer  from  thy  window  look — 
Thou  hast  no  son,  thou  tender  mother  ! 
No  longer  walk,  thou  lovely  maid  ; 
Alas,  thou  hast  no  more  a  brother  ! 
No  longer  seek  him  east  or  west 
And  search  no  more  the  forest  thorough  ; 
For,  wandering  in  the  night  so  dark, 
He  fell  a  lifeless  corpse  in  Yarrow. 

The  tear  shall  never  leave  my  cheek, 
No  other  youth  shall  be  my  marrow — 
I'll  seek  thy  body  in  the  stream, 
And  then  with  thee  I'll  sleep  in  Yarrow. 
— The  tear  did  never  leave  her  cheek, 
No  other  youth  became  her  marrow  ; 
She  found  his  body  in  the  stream, 
And  now  with  him  she  sleeps  in  Yarrow. 

/.  Logan 


CLXIV 

WILLY  DROWNED  IN  YARROW 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 
Where  bonnie  grows  the  lily, 

I  heard  a  fair  maid  sighing  say, 
'  My  wish  be  wi'  sweet  Willie  ! 

*  Willie's  rare,  and  Willie's  fair, 

And  Willie's  wondrous  bonny  ; 
And  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
Gin  e'er  he  married  ony. 

*  O  gentle  wind,  that  bloweth  south 

From  where  my  Love  repaireth, 
Convey  a  kiss  frae  his  dear  mouth 
And  tell  me  how  he  fareth  ! 

*  O  tell  sweet  Willie  to  come  doun 

And  hear  the  mavis  singing, 
And  see  the  birds  on  ilka  bush 
And  leaves  around  therr  hinging 


148  BOOK 

*  The  lav'rock  there,  wi'  her  white  breast 

And  gentle  throat  sae  narrow ; 

There's  sport  eneuch  for  gentlemen 

On  Leader  haughs  and  Yarrow. 

'  O  Leader  haughs  are  wide  and  braid 
And  Yarrow  haughs  are  bonny  ; 

There  Willie  hecht  to  marry  me 
If  e'er  he  married  ony. 

*  But  Willie's  gone,  whom  I  thought  on, 

And  does  not  hear  me  weeping  ; 
Draws  many  a  tear  frae  true  love's  e'e 
When  other  maids  are  sleeping. 

*  Yestreen  I  made  my  bed  fu'  braid, 

The  night  I'll  mak'  it  narrow, 
For  a'  the  live-lang  winter  night 
I  lie  twined  o'  my  marrow. 

*  O  came  ye  by  yon  water-side  ? 

Pou'd  you  the  rose  or  lily  ? 
Or  came  you  by  yon  meadow  green, 
Or  saw  you  my  sweet  Willie  ? ' 

She  sought  him  up,  she  sought  him  down, 
She  sought  him  braid  and  narrow ; 

Syne,  in  the  cleaving  of  a  craig, 
She  found  him  drown'd  in  Yarrow  ! 
Anon. 


CLXV 
LOSS  OF  THE  ROYAL  GEORGE 

Toll  for  the  Brave  ! 
The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 
All  sunk  beneath  the  wave 
Fast  by  their  native  shore  ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave 
Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 
Had  made  the  vessel  heel 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 


THIRD  149 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds 
And  she  was  overset ; 
Down  went  the  Royal  George, 
With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave  ! 
Brave  Kempenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 
His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle  ; 
No  tempest  gave  the  shock  ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak, 
She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 
His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kempenfelt  went  down 
With  twice  four  hundred  men. 

— Weigh  the  vessel  up 
Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 
The  tears  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound, 

And  she  may  float  again 

Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main  : 

But  Kempenfelt  is  gone, 
His  victories  are  o'er  ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  wave  no  more. 

W.  Cowper 

CLXVI 
BLACK- EYED  SUSAN 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd, 
The  streamers  waving  in  the  wind, 

When  black -eyed  Susan  came  aboard  ; 
'  O  !  where  shall  I  my  true-love  find  ? 

Tell  me,  ye  jovial  sailors,  tell  me  true 

If  my  sweet  William  sails  among  the  crew. 


ISO  BOOK 

William,  who  high  upon  the  yard 

Rock'd  with  the  billow  to  and  fro, 
Soon  as  her  well-known  voice  he  heard 

He  sigh'd,  and  cast  his  eyes  below  : 
The  cord  slides  swiftly  through  his  glowing  hands. 
And  quick  as  lightning  on  the  deck  he  stands. 

So  the  sweet  lark,  high  poised  in  air, 
Shuts  close  his  pinions  to  his  breast 
' If  chance  his  mate's  shrill  call  he  hear, 
And  drops  at  once  into  her  nest : — 
The  noblest  captain  in  the  British  fleet 
Might  envy  William's  lip  those  kisses  sweet. 

*  O  Susan,  Susan,  lovely  dear, 

My  vows  shall  ever  true  remain  ; 
Let  me  kiss  off  that  falling  tear  ; 

We  only  part  to  meet  again. 


Change  as  ye  list,  ye  winds  ;  my  heart  shall  be 
The  faithful  compass  that  still  points  to  thee. 

1  Believe  not  what  the  landmen  say 

Who  tempt  with  doubts  thy  constant  mind  ; 

They'll  tell  thee,  sailors,  when  away, 
In  every  port  a  mistress  find  : 

Yes,  yes,  believe  them  when  they  tell  thee  so, 

For  Thou  art  present  wheresoe'er  I  go. 

1  If  to  fair  India's  coast  we  sail, 
Thy  eyes  are  seen  in  diamonds  bright, 

Thy  breath  is  Afric's  spicy  gale, 
Thy*skin  is  ivory  so  white. 

Thus  every  beauteous  object  that  I  view 

Wakes  in  my  soul  some  charm  of  lovely  Sue. 

'  Though  battle  call  me  from  thy  arms 

Let  not  my  pretty  Susan  mourn  ; 
Though  cannons  roar,  yet  safe  from  harms 

William  shall  to  his  Dear  return. 
Love  turns  aside  the  balls  that  round  me  fly, 
Lest  precious  tears  should  drop  from  Susan's  eye.5 

The  boatswain  gave  the  dreadful  word, 
The  sails  their  swelling  bosom  spread 
No  longer  must  she  stay  aboard  ; 


THIRD  151 

They  kiss'd,  she  sigh'd,  he  hung  his  head. 
Her  lessening  boat  unwilling  rows  to  land  ; 
*  Adieu  ! '  she  cries  ;  and  waved  her  lily  hand. 

/.  Gay 

CLXVII 

SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 

There's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  pur  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em  ; 
Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  : 
But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by,  I  leave  my  work, 

I  love  her  so  sincerely  ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 

And  bangs  me  most  severely — 
But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 

I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day — 
And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday  ; 
For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 


152  BOOK 

My  master  carries  me  to  church, 

And  often  am  I  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 

As  soon  as  text  is  named  ; 
I  leave  the  church  in  sermon-time 

And  slink  away  to  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again 

O  then  I  shall  have  money  ; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 

I'll  give  it  to  my  honey  : 
I  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound, 

I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally  ; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  and  the  neighbours  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 
And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley  ; 
But  when  my  seven  long  years  are  out 

O  then  I'll  marry  Sally, — 
O  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed.. 
But  not  in  our  alley  ! 

H.  Carey 


CLXVIII 

A  FAREWELL 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine, 

An'  fill  it  in  a  silver  tassie  ; 
That  I  may  drink  before  I  go 

A  service  to  my  bonnie  lassie  : 
The  boat  rocks  at  the  pier  o'  Leith, 

Fu'  loud  the  wind  blaws  frae  the  ferry, 
The  ship  rides  by  the  Berwick-law, 

And  I  maun  leave  my  bonnie  Mary 


THIRD  153 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  banners  fly, 

The  glittering  spears  are  ranked  ready  ; 
The  shouts  o'  war  are  heard  afar, 

The  battle  closes  thick  and  bloody ; 
But  it's  not  the  roar  o'  sea  or  shore 

Wad  make  me  langer  wish  to  tarry  ; 
Nor  shout  o'  war  that's  heard  afar — 

It's  leaving  thee,  my  bonnie  Mary. 

R.  Burns 


CLXIX 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please 

Right  soon  I'll  mount  my  steed  ; 
And  strong  his  arm,  and  fast  his  seat 

That  bears  frae  me  the  meed. 
I'll  wear  thy  colours  in  my  cap 

Thy  picture  at  my  heart ; 
And  he  that  bends  not  to  thine  eye 
Shall  rue  it  to  his  smart  ! 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love ; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thy  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take 
Tho'  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

If  gay  attire  delight  thine  eye 

I'll  dight  me  in  array  ; 
I'll  tend  thy  chamber  door  all  night, 

And  squire  thee  all  the  day. 
If  sweetest  sounds  can  win  thine  ear, 

These  sounds  I'll  strive  to  catch  ; 
Thy  voice  I'll  steal  to  woo  thysell, 

That  voice  that  nane  can  match. 

But  if  fond  love  thy  heart  can  gain, 

I  never  broke  a  vow  ; 
Nae  maiden  lays  her  skaith  to  me, 

I  never  loved  but  you. 
For  you  alone  I  ride  the  ring, 

For  you  I  wear  the  blue  ; 
For  you  alone  I  strive  to  sing, 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  ! 


154  BOOK 

Then  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee,  Love  ; 

O  tell  me  how  to  woo  thee  ! 
For  thv  dear  sake,  nae  care  I'll  take, 

Tho  ne'er  another  trow  me. 

J?.  Graham  of  Gartmore 

CLXX 

TO  A   YOUNG  LADY 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade, 

Apt  emblem  of  a  virtuous  maid — 

Silent  and  chaste  she  steals  along, 

Far  from  the  world's  gay  busy  throng  : 

With  gentle  yet  prevailing  force, 

Intent  upon  her  destined  course  ; 

Graceful  and  useful  all  she  does. 

Blessing  and  blest  where'er  she  goes  ; 

Pure-bosom'd  as  that  watery  glass 

And  Heaven  reflected  in  her  face. 

W.   Cowper 


CLXXI 

THE  SLEEPING  BEAUTY 

Sleep  on,- and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile — 
Tho'  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow  : 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know  ! 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast : 
— And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 


THIRD  155 

Sleep  on  secure  i     Above  controul 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  Heaven  and  thee  : 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary  ! 

S.  Rogers 

CLXXII 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 
An  unrelenting  foe  to  Love, 
And  when  we  meet  a  mutual  heart 
Come  in  between,  and  bid  us  part  ? 

Bid  us  sigh  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  wish  and  wish  the  soul  away  ; 
Till  youth  and  genial  years  are  flown, 
And  all  the  life  of  life  is  gone  ? 

But  busy,  busy,  still  art  thou, 
To  bind  the  loveless  joyless  vow, 
The  heart  from  pleasure  to  delude, 
To  join  the  gentle  to  the  rude. 

For  once,  O  Fortune,  hear  my  prayer, 
And  I  absolve  thy  future  care  ; 
All  other  blessings  I  resign, 
Make  but  the  dear  Amanda  mine. 

J.    Thomson 


The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
Conveys  it  in  a  borrow'd  name  : 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure, 
But  Cloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre 
Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay — 
When  Cloe  noted  her  desire 
That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise,^ 
But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs  ; 
And  whilst  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 
I  fix  my  soul  on  Cloe's  eyes. 


1 56  BOOK 

Fair  Cloe  blush'd  :  Euphelia  frown'd  : 
I  sung,  and  gazed  ;  I  play'd,  and  trembled  ; 
And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 
Remark'd  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 
M.  Prior 


CLXXIV 

LOVE'S  SECRET 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love, 
Love  that  never  told  can  be ; 

For  the  gentle  wind  doth  move 
Silently,  invisibly. 

I  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 

I  told  her  all  my  heart, 
Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears  :• 

Ah  !  she  did  depart. 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me 

A  traveller  came  by, 
Silently,  invisibly  : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh. 

W.  Blakt 


!  When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 
/   And  finds  too  late  that  men  betray, — 
What  charm  can  soothe  her  melancholy, 
What  art  can  wash  her  guilt  away  ? 

The  only  art  her  guilt  to  cover, 
To  hide  her  shame  from  every  eye, 
To  jjive  repentance  to  her  lover 
And  wring  his  bosom,  is — to  die. 

O    Goldsmith 


THIRD  157 


Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair  ! 
How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  upon  the  bough  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

When  my  fause  Luve  was  true. 

Thou'll  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine, 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love  ; 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose, 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

R.  Burns 


CLXXVII 

THE  PROGRESS  OF  POES\ 
A  Pindaric  Ode 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake, 
And  give  to  rapture  all  thy  trembling  strings. 
From  Helicon's  harmonious  springs 

A  thousand  rills  their  mazy  progress  take  ; 
The  laughing  flowers  that  round  them  blow 
Drink  life  and  fragrance  as  they  flow. 
Now  the  rich  stream  of  music  winds  along 
Deep,  majestic,  smooth,  and  strong, 


158  BOOK 

Thro'  verdant  vales,  and  Ceres'  golden  reign  ; 
Now  rolling  down  the  steep  amain 
Headlong,  impetuous,  see  it  pour  : 
The   rocks   and   nodding    groves    re-bellow    to    the 
roar. 

Oh!  Sovereign  of  the  willing  soul, 
Parent  of  sweet  and  solemn-breathing  airs, 
Enchanting  shell  !  the  sullen  Cares 

And  frantic  Passions  hear  thy  soft  controul, 
On  Thracia's  hills  the  Lord  of  War 
Has  curb'd  the  fury  of  his  car 
And  dropt  his  thirsty  lance  at  thy  command. 
Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand 
Of  Jove,  thy  magic  lulls  the  feather'd  king 
With  ruffled  plumes,  and  flagging  wing : 
Quench'd  in  dark  clouds  of  slumber  lie 
The  terror  of  his  beak,  and  lightnings  of  his  eye. 

Thee  the  voice,  the  dance,  obey 

Temper'd  to  thy  warbled  lay. 

O'er  Idalia's  velvet-green 

The  rosy-crowned  Loves  are  seen 

On  Cytherea's  day ; 

With  antic  Sport,  and  blue-eyed  Pleasures, 

Frisking  light  in  frolic  measures  ; 

Now  pursuing,  now  retreating, 

Now  in  circling  troops  they  meet : 
To  brisk  notes  in  cadence  beating 

Glance  their  many- twinkling  feet* 
Slow  melting  strains  their  Queen's  approach  declare  : 

Where'er  she  turns,  the  Graces  homage  pay  : 
With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air 

In  gliding  state  she  wins  her  easy  way : 
O'er  her  warm  cheek  and  rising  bosom  move 
The  bloom  of  young  Desire  and  purple  light  of  Love 

Man's  feeble  race  what  ills  await  ! 
Labour,  and  Penury,  the  racks  of  Pain, 
Disease,  and  Sorrow's  weeping  train, 

And  Death,  sad  refuge  from  the  storms  of  fate  J 
The  fond  complaint,  my  song,  disprove, 
And  justify  the  laws  of  Jove. 


THIRD  159 

Say,  has  he  given  in  vain  the  heavenly  Muse  ? 

Night,  and  all  her  sickly  dews, 

Her  spectres  wan,  and  birds  of  boding  cry 

He  gives  to  range  the  dreary  sky : 

Till  down  the  eastern  cliffs  afar 

Hyperion's  march  they  spy,  and  glittering  shafts  of  war, 

In  climes  beyond  the  solar  road 
Where  shaggy  forms  o'er  ice-built  mountains  roam, 
The  Muse  has  broke  the  twilight  gloom 

To  cheer  the  shivering  native's  dull  abode. 
And  oft,  beneath  the  odorous  shade 
Of  Chili's  boundless  forests  laid, 
She  deigns  to  hear  the  savage  youth  repeat 
In  loose  numbers  wildly  sweet 
Their  feather-cinctured  chiefs,  and  dusky  loves. 
Her  track,  where'er  the  goddess  roves, 
Glory  pursue,  and  generous  Shame, 
Th'  unconquerable  Mind,  and  Freedom's  holy  flame. 
Woods,  that  wave  o'er  Delphi's  steep, 
Isles,  that  crown  th'  Aegean  deep, 
Fields  that  cool  Ilissus  laves, 
Or  where  Maeander's  amber  waves 
In  lingering  labyrinths  creep, 
How  do  your  tuneful  echoes  languish, 
Mute,  but  to  the  voice  of  anguish  ! 
Where  each  old  poetic  mountain 

Inspiration  breathed. around  ; 
Every  shade  and  hallow'd  fountain 

Murmur'd  deep  a  solemn  sound  : 
Till  the  sad  Nine,  in  Greece's  evil  hour 

Left  their  Parnassus  for  the  Latian  plains. 
Alike  they  scorn  the  pomp  of  tyrant  Power, 

And  coward  Vice,  that  revels  in  her  chains. 
When  Latium  had  her  lofty  spirit  lost, 
They  sought,  oh  Albion  !  next,  thy  sea^encircled  coast 

Far  from  the  sun  and  summer-gale 
In  thy  green  lap  was  Nature's  Darling  laid, 
What  time,  where  lucid  Avon  stray'd, 

To  him  the  mighty  Mother  did  unveil 
Her  awful  face  :  the  dauntless  child 
Stretch'd  forth  his  little  arms,  and  smiled. 


160  BOOK 

'This  pencil  take*  (she  said),  *  whose  colours  clear 

Richly  paint  the  vernal  year  : 

Thine,  too,  these  golden  keys,  immortal  Boy  ! 

This  can  unlock  the  gates  of  joy  ; 

Of  horror  that,  and  thrilling  fears, 

Or  ope  the  sacred  source  of  sympathetic  tears.* 

Nor  second  He,  that  rode  sublime 
Upon  the  seraph- wings  of  Extasy 
The  secrets  of  the  abyss  to  spy  : 

He  pass'd  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time  : 
The  living  Throne,  the  sapphire-blaze 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze, 
He  saw  ;  but  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 
Behold  where  Dryden's  less  presumptuous  car 
Wide  o'er  the  fields  of  glory  bear 
Two  coursers  of  ethereal  race, 

With  necks  in  thunder  clothed,  and  long-resounding 
pace 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore  ! 

Bright- eyed  Fancy,  hovering  o'er, 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe,  and  words  that  burn. 

But  ah  !  'tis  heard  no  more — 

Oh  !  lyre  divine,  what  daring  spirit 

Wakes  thee  now  ?  Tho'  he  inherit 

Nor  the  pride,  nor  ample  pinion, 

That  the  Theban  eagle  bear, 
Sailing  with  supreme  dominion 

Thro'  the  azure  deep  of  air : 
Yet  oft  before  his  infant  eyes  would  run 

Such  forms  as  glitter  in  the  Muse's  ray 
With  orient  hues,  unborrow'd  of  the  sun  : 

Yet  shall  he  mount,  and  keep  his  distant  way 
Beyond  the  limits  of  a  vulgar  fate  : 
Beneath  the  Good  how  far — but  far  above  the  Great. 

T.  Gray 


THIRD  161 

CLXXVIII 

THE  PASSIONS 
An  Ode  for  Music 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  Passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shell, 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell 
Exulting,  trembling,  raging,  fainting, 
Possest  beyond  the  Muse's  painting; 
By  turns  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturb'd,  delighted,  raised,  refined  : 
'Till  once,  'tis  said,  when  all  were  fired, 
Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspired, 
From  the  supporting  myrtles  round 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound, 
And,  as  they  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  Madness  ruled  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 

First  Fear  his  hand,  its  skill  to  try, 

Amid  the  chords  bewilder'd  laid, 
And  back  recoil'd,  he  knew  not  why, 

E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 

Next  Anger  rush'd,  his  eyes  on  fire, 
In  lightnings,  own'd  his  secret  slings  ; 

In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre 

And  swept  with  hurried  hand  the  strings 

With  woeful  measures  wan  Despair, 
Low  sullen  sounds,  his  grief  beguiled  ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air, 
'Twas  sad  by  fits,  by  starts  'twas  wild. 

But  thou,  O  hope,  with  eyes  so  fair, 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ? 

Still  it  whisper'd  promised  pleasure 

And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  .distance  hail  ! 

Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 
And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale 

M 


162  BOOK 

She  call'd  on  Echo  still  through  all  the  song ; 
And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  close  ; 

And  Hope  enchanted  smiled,  and  waved  her  golden 
hair ; — 

And  longer  had  she  sung  :  —but  with  a  frown 

Revenge  impatient  rose  : 
He  ^hrew  his  blood-stain'd  sword  in  thunder  down  ; 

And  with  a  withering  look 
The  war-denouncing  trumpet  took 
And  blew  a  blast  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  woe  ! 

And  ever  and  anon  he  beat 

The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat ; 
And,  though  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between, 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side 

Her  soul-subduing  voice  applied, 
Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mien, 
While   each    strain'd    ball    of  sight  seem'd  bursting 

from  his  head. 
Thy  numbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fix'd  : 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  state  ! 
Of  differing  themes  the  veering  song  was  mix'cl  ; 
And    now   it  courted  Love,  now  raving  call'd  on 

Hate. 

With  eyes  up-raised,  as  one  inspired, 

Pale  Melancholy  sat  retired  ; 

And  from  her  wild  sequester'd  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul  : 

And  dashing  soft  from  rocks  around 

Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound  ; 
Through   glades   and   glooms   the    mingleu  measure 

stole, 
Or,  o'er  some  haunted  stream,  with  fond  delay, 

Round  an  holy  calm  diffusing, 

Love  of  peace,  and  lonely  musing, 
In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 

But  O  !  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlier  tone 
When  Cheerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 


THIRD  163 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 
Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew, 

Blew  an  inspiring  air,  that  dale  and  thicket  rung, 
*  The  hunter's  call  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known  ! 

The  oak-crown'd  Sisters  and  their  chaste-eyed  Queen, 
Satyrs  and  Sylvan  Boys,  were  seen 
Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoiced  to  hear  ; 

And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seized  his  beechen  spear. 

Last  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial  : 

He,  with  viny  crown  advancing, 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  addrest : 

But  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol 

Whose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  loved  the  best : 

They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maids 
Amidst  the  festal-sounding  shades 

To  some  unwearied  minstrel  dancing  ; 

While,  as  his  flying  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings, 
Love  framed  with  Mirth  a  gay  fantastic  round  : 
Loose  were  her  tresses  seen,  her  zone  unbound ; 
And  he,  amidst  his  frolic  play, 
As  if  he  would  the  charming  air  repay, 

Shook  thousand  odours  from  his  dewy  wings. 

O  Music  !  sphere-descended  maid, 
Friend  of  Pleasure,  Wisdom's  aid  ! 
Why,  goddess  !  why,  to  us  denied, 
Lay'st  thou  thy  ancient  lyre  aside  ? 
As  in  that  loved  Athenian  bower 
You  learn'd  an  all-commanding  power, 
Thy  mimic  soul,  O  Nymph  endear'd, 
Can  well  recall  what  then  it  heard. 
Where  is  thy  native  simple  heart 
Devote  to  Virtue,  Fancy,  Art  ? 
Arise,  as  in  that  elder  time, 
Warm,  energic,  chaste,  sublime  ! 
Thy  wonders,  in  that  god-like  age, 
Fill  thy  recording  Sister's  page  ; — 
'Tis  said,  and  I  believe  the  tale, 
Thy  humblest  reed  could  more  prevail, 
M  2 


164  BOOK 

Had  more  of  strength,  diviner  rage, 
Than  all  which  charms  this  laggard  age  : 
E'en  all  at  once  together  found, 
Cecilia's  mingled  world  of  sound  : — 
O  bid  our  vain  endeavours  cease  : 
Revive  the  just  designs  of  Greece  : 
Return  in  all  thy  simple  state  ! 
Confirm  the  tales  her  sons  relate  ! 

W.  Collins 


CLXXIX 

THE  SONG  OF  DA  VID 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 
Of  all  things,  the  stupendous  force 

On  which  all  strength  depends  : 
From  Whose  right  arm,  beneath  Whose  eyes 
All  period,  power,  and  enterprise 

Commences,  reigns,  and  ends. 

The  world,  the  clustering  spheres  He  made, 
The  glorious  light,  the  soothing  shade, 

Dale,  champaign,  grove  and  hill : 
The  multitudinous  abyss, 
Where  secrecy  remains  in  bliss, 

And  wisdom  hides  her  skill. 

Tell  them,  I  AM,  Jehovah  said 

To  Moses  :  while  Earth  heard  in  dread, 

And,  smitten  to  the  heart, 
At  once,  above,  beneath,  around, 
All  Nature,  without  voice  or  sound, 

Replied,  '  O  Lord,  THOU  ART.' 
C.  Smart 


THIRD  165 

CLXXX 

INFANT  JOY 

*  I  have  no  name  ; 

I  am  but  two  days  old.' 
—What  shall  I  call  thee  ? 

*  I  happy  am  ; 
Joy  is  my  name.' 

— Sweet  joy  befall  thee  ! 

Pretty  joy  ! 

Sweet  joy,  but  two  days  old  ; 

Sweet  joy  I  call  thee  : 

Thou  dost  smile  : 

I  sing  the  while, 

Sweet  joy  befall  thee  ! 

W.  Blake 

A  CRADLE  SONG 


Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night ; 
Sleep,  sleep  ;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast 
Where  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

Oh  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep  ! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  light  shall  break. 

W.  Blake 


1 66  BOOK 


CLXXXII 
ODE  ON  THE  SPRING 

Lo  !  where  the  rosy- bosom 'd  Hours, 

Fair  Venus'  train,  appear, 
Disclose  the  long-expecting  flowers 

And  wake  the  purple  year  ! 
The  Attic  warbler  pours  her  throat 
Responsive  to  the  cuckoo's  note, 
The  untaught  harmony  of  Spring  : 
While,  whispering  pleasure  as  they  fly, 
Cool  Zephyrs  thro'  the  clear  blue  sky 

Their  gather'd  fragrance  fling. 

Where'er  the  oak's  thick  branches  stretch 

A  broader,  browner  shade, 
Where'er  the  rude  and  moss-grown  beech 

O'er-canopies  the  glade, 
Beside  some  water's  rushy  brink 
With  me  the  Muse  shall  sit,  and  think 
(At  ease  reclined  in  rustic  state) ' 
How  vain  the  ardour  of  the  crowd, 
How  low,  how  little  are  the  proud, 

How  indigent  the  great  ! 

Still  is  the  toiling  hand  of  Care  ; 

The  panting  herds  repose  : 
Yet  hark,  how  thro'  the  peopled  air 

The  busy  murmur  glows  ! 
The  insect-youth  are  on  the  wing, 
Eager  to  taste  the  honied  spring 
And  float  amid  the  liquid  noon  : 
Some  lightly  o'er  the  current  skim, 
Some  show  their  gaily-gilded  trim 

Quick-glancing  to  the  sun. 

To  Contemplation's  sober  eye 

Such  is  the  race  of  Man  : 
And  they  that  creep,  and  they  that  fly. 

Shall  end  where  they  began. 
Alike  the  Busy  and  the  Gay  / 


THIRD  167 

But  flutter  thro'  life's  little  day, 
In  Fortune's  varying  colours  drest : 
Brusb'd  by  the  hand  of  rough  Mischance, 
Or  chill'd  by  Age,  their  airy  dance 
They  leave,  in  dust  to  rest. 

Methinks  I  hear  in  accents  low 

The  sportive  kind  reply  : 
Poor  moralist  !  and  what  art  thou  ? 

A  solitary  fly  ! 

Thy  joys  no  glittering  female  meets, 
No  hive  hast  thou  of  hoarded  sweets, 
No  painted  plumage  to  display  : 
On  hasty  wings  thy  youth  is  flown  ; 
Thy  sun  is  set,  thy  spring  is  gone — 

We  frolic  while  'tis  May. 

T.  Gray 


CLXXXIII 

THE  POPLAR  FIELD 

The  poplars  are  fell'd  ;  farewell  to  the  shade 
And  the  whispering  sound  of  the  cool  colonnade  ; 
The  winds  play  no  longer  and  sing  in  the  leaves, 
Nor  Ouse  on  his  bosom  their  image  receives. 

Twelve  years  have  elapsed  since  I  first  took  a  view 
Of  my  favourite  field,  and  the  bank  where  they  grew  : 
And  now  in  the  grass  behold  they  are  laid, 
And  the  tree  is  my  seat  that  once  lent  me  a  shade  ! 

The  blackbird  has  fled  to  another  retreat 
Where  the  hazels  afford  him  a  screen  from  the  heat  ; 
And  the  scene  where  his  melody  charm'd  me  before 
Resounds  with  his  sweet-flowing  ditty  no  more. 

My  fugitive  years  are  all  hasting  away, 
And  I  must  ere  long  lie  as  lowly  as  they, 
With  a  turf  on  my  breast  and  a  stone  at  my  head, 
Ere  another  such  grove  shall  arise  in  its  stead. 


168  BOOK 

The  change  both  my  heart  and  my  fancy  employs ; 
I  reflect  on  the  frailty  of  man  and  his  joys  : 
Short-lived  as  we  are,  yet  our  pleasures,  we  see, 
Have  a  still  shorter  date,  and  die  sooner  than  we. 

W.  Cowper 


CLXXXIV 

TO  A  MOUSE 

On  turning  her  up  in  her  nest}  with  the  plough , 
November -,  1785 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie, 

0  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 
Wi'  bickering  brattle  ! 

1  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee 
Wi'  murd'ring  pat  tie  ! 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 

Has  broken  Nature's  social  union, 

An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion 

Which  makes  thee  startle 

At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow- mortal  ! 

I  doubt  na,  whiles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 

What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 

A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'S  a  sma'  request  : 

I'll  get  a  Nessin'  wi'  the  lave, 

And  never  miss't  ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  win's  are  strewin  : 
And  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 
&  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin' 
Baith  snell  an'  keen  ! 


THIRD  169 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an*  waste 

An'  weary  winter  comin'  fast, 

An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast, 

Thou  thought  to  dwell, 

Till,  crash  !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  thro'  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble 
Has  cost  thee  mony  a  weary  nibble  ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 
But  house  or  hald, 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble 
An'  cranreuch  cauld  ! 

But,  Mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain  : 
The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men 
Gang  aft  a-gley, 

An'  lea'e  us  nought  but  grief  an'  pain, 
For  promised  joy. 

Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 

The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 

But,  Och  !   I  backward  cast  my  e'e 

On  prospects  drear  ! 

An'  forward,  tho'  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear  ! 

R.  Burns 


CLXXXV 
A   WISH 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  ; 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 


i;o  BOOK 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet-gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village-church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage-vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  Heaven. 

S.  Rogers 


CLXXXVI 

ODE  TO  EVENING 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song 

May  hope,  O  pensive  Eve,  to  soothe  thine  ear 

Like  thy  own  solemn  springs, 

Thy  springs,  and  dying  gales  ; 

O   Nymph    reserved, — while    now    the    bright-hair'd 

sun 
Sits  in  yon  western  tent,  whose  cloudy  -skirts, 

With  brede  ethereal  wove, 

O'erhang  his  wavy  bed  ; 

Now  air  is  hush'd,  save  where  the  weak-eyed  bat 
With  short  shrill  shriek  flits  by  on  leathern  wing, 

Or  where  the  beetle  winds 

His  small  but  sullen  horn, 

As  oft  he  rises  midst  the  twilight  path, 
Against  the  pilgrim  borne  in  heedless  hum, — 

Now  teach  me,  maid  composed, 

To  breathe  some  soften'd  strain 

Whose  numbers,  stealing  through  thy  darkening  vale, 
May  not  unseemly  with  its  stillness  suit ; 

\s,  musing  slow,  I  hail 

Thy  genial  loved  return. 


THIRD  171 

For  when  thy  folding-star  arising  shows 
His  paly  circlet,  at  his  warning  lamp 

The  fragrant  Hours,  and  Elves 

Who  slept  in  buds  the  day, 

And  many  a  Nymph  who  wreathes  her  brows  with 

sedge 
And  sheds  the  freshening  dew,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  pensive  Pleasures  sweet. 

Prepare  thy  shadowy  car. 

Then  let  me  rove  some  wild  and  heathy  scene  ; 
Or  find  some  ruin  midst  its  dreary  dells, 

Whose  walls  more  awful  nod 

By  thy  religious  gleams. 

Or,  if  chill  blustering  winds  or  driving  rain 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut 

That,  from  the  mountain's  side, 

Views  wilds,  and  swelling  floods, 

And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discover'd  spires  ; 
And  hears  their  simple  bell ;  and  marks  o'er  all 

Thy  dewy  fingers  draw 

The  gradual  dusky  veil. 

While  Spring  shall  pour  his  showers,  as  oft  he  wont, 
And  bathe  thy  breathing  tresses,  meekest  Eve  ! 

While  Summer  loves  to  sport 

Beneath  thy  lingering  light  ; 

While  sallow  Autumn  fills  thy  lap  with  leaves  ; 
Or  Winter,  yelling  through  the  troublous  air, 

Affrights  thy  shrinking  train 

And  rudely  rends  thy  robes ; 

So  long,  regardful  of  thy  quiet  rule, 

Shall  Fancy,  Friendship,  Science,  smiling  Peace, 

Thy  gentlest  influence  own, 

And  love  thy  favourite  name  ! 

W.  Collins 


172  BOOK 


CLXXXVII 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A   COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  wind  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 
The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Now  fades  the  glimmering  landscape  on  the  sight, 
And  all  the  air  a  solemn  stillness  holds, 
Save  where  the  beetle  wheels  his  droning  flight, 
And  drowsy  tinklings  lull  the  distant  folds  : 

Save  that  from  yonder  ivy-mantled  tower 
The  moping  owl  does  to  the  moon  complain 
Of  such  as,  wandering  near  her  secret  bower, 
Molest  her  ancient  solitary  reign. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 
Each  in  his  narrow  cell  for  ever  laid, 
The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 
The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 
The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  : 
No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Oft  did  the  harvest  to  their  sickle  yield, 
Their  furrow  oft  the  stubborn  glebe  has  broke  ; 
How  jocund  did  they  drive  their  team  afield  ! 
How  bow'd  the  woods  beneath  their  sturdy  stroke  ! 

Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 
Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile 
The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 


THIRD  173 

The  boast  of  heraldry,  the  pomp  of  power, 
And  all  that  beauty,  all  that  wealth  e'er  gave, 
A.waits  alike  th'  inevitable  hour : — 
The  paths  of  glory  lead  but  to  the  grave. 

Nor  you,  ye  proud,  impute  to  these  the  fault 
If  merhory  o'er  their  tomb  no  trophies  raise, 
Where  through  the  long-drawn  aisle  and  fretted  vault 
The  pealing  anthem  swells  the  note  of  praise. 

Can  storied  urn  or  animated  bust 
Back  to  its  mansion  call  the  fleeting  breath  ? 
Can  honour's  voice  provoke  the  silent  dust, 
Or  flattery  soothe  the  dull  cold  ear  of  death  ? 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 
Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 
Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  sway'd, 
Or  waked  to  extasy  the  living  lyre  : 

But  knowledge  to  their  eyes  her  ample  page 
Rich  with  the  spoils  of  time,  did  ne'er  unroll  ; 
Chill  penury  repress'd  their  noble  rage, 
And  froze  the  genial  current  of  the  soul. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 
The  dark  unfathom'd  caves  of  ocean  bear  : 
Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 

Some  village-Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 
The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 
Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Th'  applause  of  listening  senates  to  command, 
The  threats  of  pain  and  ruin  to  despise, 
To  scatter  plenty  o'er  a  smiling  land, 
And  read  their  history  in  a  nation's  eyes 

Their  lot  forbad  :  nor  circumscribed  alone 
Their  growing  virtues,  but  their  crimes  confined  ; 
Forbad  to  wade  thro'  slaughter  to  a  throne, 
And  shut  the  gates  of  mercy  on  mankind  ; 


174  BOOK 

The  struggling  pangs  of  conscious  truth  to  hide, 
To  quench  the  blushes  of  ingenuous  shame, 
Or  heap  the  shrine  of  luxury  and  pride 
With  incense  kindled  at  the  Muse's  flame. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learn'd  to  stray ; 
Along  the  cool  sequester'd  vale  of  life 
They  kept  the  noiseless  tenour  of  their  way 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 

With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  deck'd, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

Their  name,  their  years,  spelt  by  th'  unletter'd  Muse, 
The  place  of  fame  and  elegy  supply : 
And  many  a  holy  text  around  she  strews, 
That  teach  the  rustic  moralist  to  die. 

For  who,  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd, 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing  lingering  look  behind  ? 

On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies, 
Some  pious  drops  the  closing  eye  requires  ; 
E'en  from  the  tomb  the  voice  of  nature  cries, 
E'en  in  our  ashes  live  their  wonted  fires. 

For  thee,  who,  mindful  of  th'  unhonour'd  dead, 
Dost  in  these  lines  their  artless  tale  relate  ; 
If  chance,  by  lonely  contemplation  led, 
Some  kindred  spirit  shall  enquire  thy  fate,'— 

Haply  some  hoary-headed  swain  may  say, 
'  Oft  have  we  seen  him  at  the  peep  of  dawn 
Brushing  with  hasty  steps  the  dews  away, 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the  upland  lawn ; 

'  There  at  the  foot  of  yonder  nodding  beech 
That  wreathes  its  old  fantastic  roots  so  high, 
His  listless  length  at  noon-tide  would  he  stretch, 
And  pore  upon  the  brook  that  babbles  by. 


THIRD  175 

'Hard  by  yon  wood,  now  smiling  as  in  scorn, 
Muttering  his  wayward  fancies  he  would  rove  ; 
Now  drooping,  woeful-wan,  like  one  forlorn, 
Or  crazed  with  care,  or  cross'd  in  hopeless  love. 

'  One  morn  I  miss'd  him  on  the  custom'd  hill, 
Along  the  heath,  and  near  his  favourite  tree  ; 
Another  came  ;  nor  yet  beside  the  rill, 
Nor  up  the  lawn,  nor  at  the  wood  was  he  ; 

*  The  next  with  dirges  due  in  sad  array 
Slow  through  the  church- way  path  we  saw  him  borne, — 
Approach  and  read  (for  thou  canst  read)  the  lay 
Graved  on  the  stone  beneath  yon  aged  thorn.' 

THE   EPITAPH 

Here  rests  his  head  upon  the  lap  of  earth 
A  youth,  to  fortune  and  to  fame  unknown  ; 
Fair  science  frown'd  not  on  his  humble  birth 
And  melancholy  mark'd  him  for  her  own. 

Large  was  his  bounty,  and  his  soul  sincere  ; 

Heaven  did  a  recompense  as  largely  send  : 

He  gave  to  misery  (all  he  had)  a  tear, 

He  gain'd  from  Heaven  ('twas  all  he  wish'd)  a  friend 

No  farther  seek  his  merits  to  disclose, 
Or  draw  his  frailties  from  their  dread  abode, 
(There  they  alike  in  trembling  hope  repose,) 
The  bosom  of  his  Father  and  his  God. 

T.   Gray 

CLXXXVIII 

MARY  MORISON 

^  ,  ,        .    , 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be, 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  see 
That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  : 
How  blithely  wad  I  bid  the  stoure, 
A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun, 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure, 
The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 


176  BOOK 

Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string 
The  dance  gaed  thro'  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, — 
I  sat,  but  neither  heard  nor  saw  : 
Tho'  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  braw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 
I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
'  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison.' 

O  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace 
Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  dee  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 
Whase  only  faut  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 
At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown ; 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 
The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 

.#.  Burns 


CLXXXIX 

BONNIE  LESLEY 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

She's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever  ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  Fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  Fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee  ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say  '  I  canna  wrang  thee  ! ' 


THIRD  177 

The  Powers  aboon  will  tent  thee  ; 

Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  Fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

R.  Burns 


CXC 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

0  my  Luve's  like  the  melodic 
That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry  : 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun ; 

1  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  Luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile  ; 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  Luve, 

Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

R.  Burns 


CXCI 

HIGHLAND  MARY 

/e  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 

N 


BOOK 

There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry  ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie  ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 
But,  Oh  !  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips, 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ; 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ; 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ed  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

R.  Burns 


CXCII 

A  ULD  ROBIN  GRA  Y 

When   the  sheep  are   in  the  fauld,  and   the  kye  at 

name, 

And  a'  the  world  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 


THIRD  179 

Young  Jamie  lo'ed  me  weel,  and  sought  me  for  his 

bride ; 

But  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside  : 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to  sea  ; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa?  a  week  but  only  twa, 

When   my   father    brak    his  arm,  and   the  cow  was 

stown  awa  ; 

My  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 

My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna  spin  ; 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna  win  ; 
Auld  Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in  his 

e'e 
Said,  Jennie,  for  their  sakes,  O,  marry  me  ! 

My  heart  it  said  nay  ;  I  look'd  for  Jamie  back  ; 

But   the   wind  it  blew  high,  and  the    ship  it  was  a 

wrack  ; 

His  ship  it  was  a  wrack— why  didna  Jamie  dee  ? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  Wae's  me  ? 

My  father  urgit  sair  :  my  mother  didna  speak  ; 

But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like  to 

break  : 

They  gi'ed  him  my  hand,  but  my  heart  was  at  the  sea ; 
Sae  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I  saw  my  Jamie's  wraith,  for  I  couldna  think  it  he 
Till  he  said,  I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee. 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say  ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  I  bad  him  gang  away  ;  - 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee  ; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  Wae's  me  ! 

I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin  ; 

I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin  ;          w 

But  I'll  do  my  best  a  glide  wife  aye  to  be, 

For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  A.  Lindsay 
N  2 


180  I OOK 

CXCIII 

DUNCAN  GRAY 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't ; 
On  blythe  Yule  night  when  we  were  fou, 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  : 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high, 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh  ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  ! 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd ; 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig  ; 
Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 
-Spak  o'  lowpin  ower  a  linn  ! 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide, 
Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide  ; 
Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he, 
For  a  haughty  hizzie  dee  ? 
She  may  gae  to — France  for  me  ,' 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell, 

Meg  grew  sick — as  he  grew  well ; 

Something  in  he"  bosom  wrings, 

For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ! 

And  O,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things  ! 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace  ; 
Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case  ; 
Duncan  couldna  be  her  death, 
Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath  ; 
Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith  : 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't  ! 

R.  Burns 


THIRD  181 

CXCIV 

THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true  ? 

And  are  ye  sure  he's  weel  ? 
Is  this  the  time  to  think  o'  wark  ? 

Ye  jades,  lay  by  your  wheel  ; 
Is  this  the  time  to  spin  a  thread, 

When  Colin's  at  the  door  ? 
Reach  down  my  cloak,  I'll  to  the  quay, 

And  see  him  come  ashore. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a'  ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

And  gie  to  me  my  bigonet, 

My  bishop's  satin  gown  ; 
For  I  maun  tell  the  baillie's  wife 

That  Colin's  in  the  town. 
My  Turkey  slippers  maun  gae  on, 

My  stockins  pearly  blue  ; 
It's  a'  to  pleasure  our  gudeman, 

For  he's  baith  leal  and  true. 

Rise,  lass,  and  mak  a  clean  fireside, 

Put  on  the  muckle  pot  ; 
Gie  little  Kate  her  button  gown 

And  Jock  his  Sunday  coat ; 
And  mak  their  shoon  as  black  as  slaes. 

Their  hose  as  white  as  snaw  ; 
It's  a'  to  please  my  ain  gudeman, 

For  he's  been  long  awa. 

There's  twa  fat  hens  upo'  the  coop 

Been  fed  this  month  and  mair  ; 
Mak  haste  and  thraw  their  necks  about, 

Thaf  Colin  weel  may  fare  ; 
And  spread  the  table  neat  and  clean, 

Gar  ilka  thing  look  braw, 
For  wha  can  tell  how  Colin  fared 

When  he  was  far  awa  ? 


182  BOOK 

Sae  true  his  heart,  sae  smooth  his  speech, 

His  breath  like  caller  air  ; 
His  very  foot  has  music  in't 

As  he  comes  up  the  stair — 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again  ? 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet ! 

If  Colin's  weel,  and  weel  content, 

I  hae  nae  mair  to  crave  : 
And  gin  I  live  to  keep  him  sae, 

I'm  blest  aboon  the  lave  : 
And  will  I  see  his  face  again, 

And  will  I  hear  him  speak  ? 
I'm  downright  dizzy  wi'  the  thought, 

In  troth  I'm  like  to  greet. 
For  there's  nae  luck  about  the  house, 

There's  nae  luck  at  a'  ; 
There's  little  pleasure  in  the  house 

When  our  gudeman's  awa'. 

W.  /.  MickU 


cxcv 
ABSENCE 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 
I  spent  wi'  you,  my  dearie  ; 

And  now  what  lands  between  us  lie< 
How  can  I  be  but  eerie  ! 

How  slow  ye  move,  ye  heavy  hours 
As  ye  were  wae  and  weary  ! 

It  was  na  sae  ye  glinted  by 
When  I  was  wi'  my  dearie. 

Anon 


THIRD  183 


CXCVI 

JEAN 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  West, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair  : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air  : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

O  blaw  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees  ; 
Wi'  balmy  gale,  frae  hill  and  dale 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  smile  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  amang  the  knowes 

Hae  passM  at  ween  us  twa  ! 
How  fond  to  meet,  how  wae  to  part 

That  night  she  gaed  awa  ! 
The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean  ! 

R.  Burns 


154  BOOK 

CXCVII 

JOHN  ANDERSON 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your 'brow  is  bald,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snow  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
We  clamb  the  hill  thegither, 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 
We've  had  wi'  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 
But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

R.  Burns 

cxcvm 
THE  LAND  a  THE  LEAL 

I'm  wearing  awaj,  Jean, 

Like  snaw  when  its  thaw,  Jean, 

I'm  wearing  awa' 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
There's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean, 
The  day  is  aye  fair 

T  11  131  11 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal. 

Ye  were  aye  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task's  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I'll  welcome  you 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 


THIRD  185 

Our  bonnie  bairn's  there,  Jean, 
She  was  baith  guid  and  fair,  Jean  ; 
O  we  grudged  her  right  sair 
To  the  land  o'  the  leal  ! 

Then  dry  that  tearfu'  e'e,  Jean, 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free^  Jean, 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  land  o'  the  leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean, 
This  warld's  care  is  vain,  Jean  ; 
We'll  meet  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  land  o'  the  leal  ! 

Lady  Nairn 


ODE   ON   A    DISTANT  PROSPECT   OF 
ETON  COLLEGE 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 

That  crown  the  watery  glade, 
Where  grateful  Science  still  adores 

Her  Henry's  holy  shade  ; 
And  ye,  that  from  the  stately  brow 
Of  Windsor's  heights  th'  expanse  below 
Of  grove,  of  lawn,  of  mead  survey, 
Whose  turf,  whose  shade,  whose  flowers  among 
Wanders  the  hoary  Thames  along 

His  silver-winding  way  : 

Ah  happy  hills  !  ah  pleasing  shade  ! 

Ah  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
Where  once  my  careless  childhood  stray'd, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain  ! 
I  feel  the  gales  that  from  ye  blow 
A  momentary  bliss  bestow, 
As  waving  fresh  their  gladsome  wing 
My  weary  soul  they  seem  to  soothe, 
And,  redolent  of  joy  and  youth, 

To  breathe  a  second  spring. 


386  BOOK 

Say,  Father  Thames,  for  thou  hast  seen 

Full  many  a  sprightly  race 
Disporting  on  thy  margent  green 

The  paths  of  pleasure  trace  ; 
Who  foremost  now  delight  to  cleave 
With  pliant  arm,  thy  glassy  wave  ? 
The  captive  linnet  which  enthral  ? 
What  idle  progeny  succeed 
To  chase  the  rolling  circle's  speed 

Or  urge  the  flying  ball  ? 

While  some  on  earnest  business  bent 

Their  murmuring  labours  ply 
'Gainst  graver  hours  that  bring  constrain* 

To  sweeten  liberty : 
Some  bold  adventurers  disdain 
The  limits  of  their  little  reign 
And  unknown  regions  dare  descry  : 
Still  as  they  run  they  look  behind, 
They  hear  a  voice  in  every  wind, 
And  snatch  a  fearful  joy. 

Gay  hope  is  theirs  by  fancy  fed, 
Less  pleasing  when  possest  ; 

The  tear  forgot  as  soon  as  shed, 
The  sunshine  of  the  breast  : 

Theirs  buxom  health,  of  rosy  hue, 

Wild  wit,  invention  ever  new, 

And  lively  cheer,  of  vigour  born  ; 

The  thoughtless  day,  the  easy  night, 

The  spirits  pure,  the  slumbers  light 
That  fly  th'  approach  of  morn. 

Alas  !  regardless  of  their  doom 

The  little  victims  play  ; 
No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come 

Nor  care  beyond  to-day  : 
Yet  see  how  all  around  'em  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate 
And  black  Misfortune's  baleful  train  ! 
Ah  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murderous  band 

Ah,  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 


THIRD 

These  shall  the  fury  Passions  tear, 

The  vultures  of  the  mind, 
Disdainful  Anger,  pallid  Fear, 

And  Shame  that  sculks  behind  : 
Or  pining  Love  shall  waste  their  youth, 
Or  Jealousy  with  rankling  tooth 
That  inly  gnaws  the  secret  heart, 
And  Envy  wan,  and  faded  Care, 
Grim-visaged  comfortless  Despair, 

And  Sorrow's  piercing  dart. 

Ambition  this  shall  tempt  to  rise, 

Then  whirl  the  wretch  from  high 
To  bitter  Scorn  a  sacrifice 

And  grinning  Infamy. 
The  stings  of  Falsehood  those  shall  try 
And  hard  Unkindness'  alter'd  eye, 
That  mocks  the  tear  it  forced  to  flow  ; 
And  keen  Remorse  with  blood  defiled, 
And  moody  Madness  laughing  wild 
Amid  severest  woe. 

Lo,  in  the  vale  of  years  beneath 

A  griesly  troop  are  seen, 
The  painful  family  of  Death. 

More  hideous  than  their  queen  : 
This  racks  the  joints,  this  fires  the  veins., 
That  every  labouring  sinew  strains, 
Those  in  the  deeper  vitals  rage  r 
Lo  !  Poverty,  to  fill  the  band, 
That  numbs  the  soul  with  icy  hand, 

And  slow-consuming  Age. 

To  each  his  sufferings :  all  are  men, 

Condemn' d  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 
And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 
Thought  would  destroy  their  paradise. 
No  more  ; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

T.  Gray 


188  BOOK 

cc 
THE  SHRUBBERY 

O  happy  shades  !  to  me  unblest  ! 

Friendly  to  peace,  but  not  to  me  ! 
How  ill  the  scene  that  offers  rest, 

And  heart  that  cannot  rest,  agree  ! 

This  glassy  stream,  that,  spreading  pine. 
Those  alders  quivering  to  the  breeze, 

Might  soothe  a  soul  less  hurt  than  mine, 
And  please,  if  anything  could  please. 

But  fi-x'd  unalterable  Care 

Foregoes  not  what  she  feels  within, 

Shows  the  same  sadness  everywhere, 
And  slights  the  season  and  the  scene. 

For  all  that  pleased  in  wood  or  lawn 

While  Peace  possess'd  these  silent  bowers, 

Her  animating  smile  withdrawn, 
Has  lost  its  beauties  and  its  powers. 

The  saint  or  moralist  should  tread 
This  moss-grown  alley,  musing,  slow, 

They  seek  like  me  the  secret  shade, 
But  not,  like  me,  to  nourish  woe  ! 

Me,  fruitful  scenes  and  prospects  waste 
Alike  admonish  not  to  roam  ; 

These  tell  me  of  enjoyments  past, 
And  those  of  sorrows  yet  to  come. 

IV.   Cowper 

CCI 

HYMN  TO  ADVERSITY 


-^y 


Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power, 
Thou  tamer  of  the  human  breast, 
Whose  iron  scourge  and  torturing  hour 

The  bad  affright,  afflict  the  best  ! 
Bound  in  thy  adamantine  chain 
The  proud  are  taught  to  taste  of  pain, 
And  purple  tyrants  vainly  groan 
With  pangs  unfelt  before,  unpitied  and  alone. 


THIRD  189 

When  first  thy  Sire  to  send  on  earth 
Virtue,  his  darl'ng  child,  design'd, 
To  thee  he  gave  the  heavenly  birth 

And  bade  to  form  her  infant  mind. 
Stern,  rugged  nurse  ;  thy  rigid  lore 
With  patience  many  a  year  she  bore  ; 
What  sorrow  was,  thou  bad'st  her  know, 
And  from  her  own  she  learn'd  to  melt  at  others'  woe. 

Scared  at  thy  frown  terrific,  fly 

Self-pleasing  Folly's  idle  brood, 
Wild  Laughter,  Noise,  and  thoughtless  Joy, 

And  leave  us  leisure  to  be  good. 
Light  they  disperse,  and  with  them  go 
The  summer  friend,  the  flattering  foe  ; 
By  vain  Prosperity  received, 
To  her  they  vow  their  truth,  and  are  again  believed* 

Wisdom  in  sable  garb  array'd 

Immersed  in  rapturous  thought  profound, 
And  Melancholy,  silent  maid, 

With  leaden  eye,  that  loves  the  ground, 
Still  on  thy  solemn  steps  attend  : 
Warm  Charity,  the  general  friend, 
With  Justice,  to  herself  severe, 
And  Pity  dropping  soft  the  sadly-pleasing  tear. 

Oh  !  gently  on  thy  suppliant's  head 

Dread  goddess,  lay  thy  chastening  hand  ! 
Not  in  thy  Gorgon  terrors  clad, 

Nor  circled  with  the  vengeful  band 
(As  by  the  impious  thou  art  seen) 
With  thundering  voice,  and  threatening  mien, 
With  screaming  Horror's  funeral  cry, 
Despair,  and  fell  Disease,  and  ghastly  Poverty ; — 
Thy  form  benign,  oh  goddess,  wear, 

Thy  milder  influence  impart, 
Thy  philosophic  train  be  there 

To  soften,  not  to  wound  my  heart. 
The  generous  spark  extinct  revive, 
Teach  me  to  love  and  to  forgive, 
Exact  my  own  defects  to  scan, 
What  others  are  to  feel,  and  know  myself  a  Man. 

T.    Gray 


J90  BOOK 


THE  SOLITUDE  OF 

ALEXANDER  SELKIRK 

' 

I  am  monarch  of  all  I  survey ; 
My  right  there  is  none  to  dispute  ; 
From  the  centre  all  round  to  the  sea 
I  am  lord  of  the  fowl  and  the  brute. 

0  Solitude  !  where  are  the  charms 
That  sages  have  seen  in  thy  face  ? 
'.Better  dwell  in  the  midst  of  alarms, 
Than  reign  in  this  horrible  place. 

1  am  out  of  humanity's  reach, 

I  must  finish  my  journey  alone, 
Never  hear  the  sweet  music  of  speech  ; 
I  start  at  the  sound  of  my  own. 
The  beasts  that  roam  over  the  plain 
My  form  with  indifference  see  ; 
They  are  so  unacquainted  with  man, 
Their  tameness  is  shocking  to  me. 

Society,  Friendship,  and  Love 
Divinely  bestow'd  upon  man, 
Oh,  had  I  the  wings  of  a  dove 
How  soon  would  I  taste  you  again  ! 
My  sorrows  I  then  might  assuage 
In  the  ways  of  religion  and  truth, 
Might  learn  from  the  wisdom  of  age, 
And  be  cheer'd  by  the  sallies  of  youth. 

Ye  winds  that  have  made  me  your  sport, 

Convey  to  this  desolate  shore 

Some  cordial  endearing  report 

Of  a  land  I  shall  visit  no  more  : 

My  friends,  do  they  now  and  then  send 

A  wish  or  a  thought  after  me  ? 

O  tell  me  I  yet  have  a  friend, 

Though  a  friend  I  am  never  to  see. 


THIRD  191 

How  fleet  is  a  glance  of  the  mind  ! 
Compared  with  the  speed  of  its  flight, 
The  tempest  itself  lags  behind, 
And  the  swift-winged  arrows  of  light. 
When  I  think  of  my  own  native  land 
In  a  moment  I  seem  to  be  there ; 
But  alas  !  recollection  at  hand 
Soon  hurries  me  back  to  despair. 

But  the  sea-fowl  is  gone  to  her  nest, 
The  beast  is  laid  down  in  his  lair ; 
Even  here  is  a  season  of  rest, 
And  I  to  my  cabin  repair. 
There's  mercy  in  every  place, 
And  mercy,  encouraging  thought  ! 
Gives  even  affliction  a  grace 
And  reconciles  man  to  his  lot. 

W.   Cowper 


CCIII 

TO  MARY  UNWIN 

Mary  !  I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings, 

Such  aid  from  Heaven  as  some  have  feign'd  they 

drew, 

An  eloquence  scarce  given  to  mortals,  new 
And  undebased  by  praise  of  meaner  things, 

That  ere  through  age  or  woe  I  shed  my  wings 
I  may  record  thy  worth  with  honour  due, 
In  verse  as  musical  as  thou  art  true, 
And  that  immortalizes  whom  it  sings  : — 

But  thou  hast  little  need.     There  is  a  Book 
By  seraphs  writ  with  beams  of  heavenly  light, 
On  which  the  eyes  of  God  not  rarely  look, 

A  chronicle  of  actions  just  and  bright — 
There  all  thy  deeds,  my  faithful  Mary,  shine  ; 
And  since  thou  own'st  that  praise,  I  spare  thee  mine. 

W.  Cowpei 


792  BOOK 


CCIV 

TO  THE  SAME 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past 
Since  first  our  sky  was  overcast ; 
Ah  would  that  this  might  be  the  last ! 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  spirits  have  a  fainter  flow, 
I  see  thee  daily  weaker  grow — 
'Twas  my  distress  that  brought  thee  low, 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  needles,  once  a  shining  store, 
For  my  sake  restless  heretofore, 
Now  rust  disused,  and  shine  no  more  ; 
My  Mary  ! 

For  though  thou  gladly  wouldst  fulfil 
The  same  kind  office  for  me  still, 
Thy  sight  now  seconds  not  thy  will, 
My  Mary  ! 

But  well  thou  play'st  the  housewife's  part, 
And  all  thy  threads  with  magic  art 
Have  wound  themselves  about  this  heart, 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  utter'd  in  a  dream  ; 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  the  theme, 
My  Mary  ! 

Thy  silver  locks,  once  auburn  bright, 
Are  still  more  lovely  in  my  sight 
Than  golden  beams  of  orient  light, 
My  Mary  ! 

For  could  I  view  nor  them  nor  thee, 
What  sight  worth  seeing  could  I  see  ? 
The  sun  would  rise  in  vain  for  me, 
My  Mary  ! 


THIRD 

Partakers  of  thy  sad  decline 
Thy  hands  their  little  force  resign ; 
Yet,  gently  prestv  press  gently  mine, 
My  Mary  ! 

Such  feebleness  of  limbs  thou  prov'st 
That  now  at  every  step  thou  mov'st 
Upheld  by  two  ;  yet  still  thou  lov'st, 
My  Mary  ! 

And  still  to  love,  though  prest  with  ill, 
In  wintry  age  to  feel  no  chill, 
With  me  is  to  be  lovely  still, 
My  Mary  ! 

But  ah  !  by  constant  heed  I  know 
How  oft  the  sadness  that  I  show 
Transforms  thy  smiles  to  looks  of  woe} 
My  Mary  ! 

And  should  my  future  lot  be  cast 
With  much  resemblance  of  the  past, 
Thy  worn-out  heart  will  break  at  last— 
My  Mary ! 

W.  Cowper 


ccv 
THE  CASTAWAY 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky, 
The  Atlantic  billows  roar'd, 

When  such  a  destined  wretch  as  I, 
Wash'd  headlong  from  on  board, 

Of  friends,  of  hope,  of  all  bereft, 

His  floating  home  for  ever  left. 

No  braver  chief  could  Albion  boast 
Than  he  with  whom  he  went, 

Nor  ever  ship  left  Albion's  coast 
With  warmer  wishes  sent. 

He  loved  them  both,  but  both  in  vain, 

Nor  him  beheld,  nor  her  again. 
-o 


I94  BOOK 

Not  long  beneath  the  whelming  brine, 

Expert  to  swim,  he  lay  ; 
Nor  soon  he  felt  his  strength  decline, 

Or  courage  die  away  ; 
But  waged  with  death  a  lasting  strife, 
Supported  by  despair  of  life. 

He  shouted  :  nor  his  friends  had  fail'd 
To  check  the  vessel's  course, 

But  so  the  furious  blast  prevail'd, 
That,  pitiless  perforce, 

They  left  their  outcast  mate  behind, 

And  scudded  still  before  the  wind. 

Some  succour  yet  they  could  afford  ; 

And  such  as  storms  allow, 
The  cask,  the  coop,  the  floated  cord, 

Delay'd  not  to  bestow. 
But  he  (they  knew)  nor  ship  nor  shore. 
Whatever  they  gave,  should  visit  more. 

Nor,  cruel  as  it  seem'd,  could  he 
Their  haste  himself  condemn, 

Aware  that  flight,  in  such  a  sea, 
Alone  could  rescue  them  ; 

Yet  bitter  felt  it  still  to  die 

Deserted,  and  his  friends  so  nigh. 

He  long  survives,  who  lives  an  hour 

In  ocean,  self-upheld ; 
And  so  long  he,  with  unspent  power, 

His  destiny  repell'd  ; 
And  ever,  as  the  minutes  flew, 
Entreated  help,  or  cried  *  Adieu  ! ' 

At  length,  his  transient  respite  past, 
His  comrades,  who  before 

Had  heard  his  voice  in  every  blast, 
Could  catch  the  sound  no  more  ; 

For  then,  by  toil  subdued,  he  drank 

The  stifling  wave,  and  then  he  sank. 


THIRD  195 

No  poet  wept  him  ;  but  the  page 

Of  narrative  sincere, 
That  tells  his  name,  his  worth,  his  age, 

Is  wet  with  Anson's  tear  : 
And  tears  by  bards  or  heroes  shed 
Alike  immortalize  the  dead. 
I  therefore  purpose  not,  or  dream, 

Descanting  on  his  fate, 
To  give  the  melancholy  theme 

A  more  enduring  date  : 
But  misery  still  delights  to  trace 
Its  semblance  in  another's  case. 
No  voice  divine  the  storm  allay'd, 

No  light  propitious  shone, 
When,  snatch'd  from  all  effectual  aid, 

We  perish'd,  each  alone  : 
But  I  beneath  a  rougher  sea, 
And  whelm'd  in  deeper  gulfs  than  he. 

W.  Cowper 

ccvi 
TOMORROW 

In  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining, 

May  my  fate  no  less  fortunate  be 
Than  a  snug  elbow-chair  will  afford  for  reclining, 

And  a  cot  that  o'erlooks  the  wide  sea ; 
With  an  ambling  pad-pony  to  pace  o'er  the  lawn, 

While  I  carol  away  idle  sorrow, 
And  blithe  as  the  lark  that  each  day  hails  the  dawn 

Look  forward  with  hope  for  Tomorrow. 
With  a  porch  at  my  door,  both  for  shelter  and  shade 
too, 

As  the  sunshine  or  rain  may  prevail  ; 
And  a  small  spot  of  ground  for  the  use  of  the  spade 
too, 

With  a  barn  for  the  use  of  the  flail  : 
A  cow  for  my  dairy,  a  dog  for  my  game, 

And  a  purse  when  a  friend  wants  to  borrow  j 
I'll  envy  no  Nabob  his  riches  or  fame, 

Or  what  honours  may  wait  him  Tomorrow. 
O  2 


196  BOOK  THIRD 

From  the  bleak  northern  blast  may  my  cot  be  com 
pletely 

Secured  by  a  neighbouring  hill ; 
And  at  night  may  repose  steal  upon  me  more  sweetly 

By  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  rill : 
And  while  peace  and  plenty  I  find  at  my  board, 

With  a  heart  free  from  sickness  and  sorrow, 
With  my  friends  may  I  share  what  Today  may  afford, 

And  let  them  spread  the  table  Tomorrow. 

And  when  I  at  last  must  throw  off  this  frail  cov'ring 

Which  I've  worn  for  three-score  years  and  ten, 
On   the    brink   of  the  grave   I'll  not    seek  to  keep 
hov'ring, 

Nor  my  thread  wish  to  spin  o'er  again  : 
But  my  face  in  the  glass  I'll  serenely  survey, 

And  with  smiles  count  each  wrinkle  and  furrow  ; 
As  this  old  worn-out  stuff,  which  is  threadbare  Today 

May  become  Everlasting  Tomorrow. 

/.  Collins 


CCVII 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met 
I  own  to  me's  a  secret  yet. 

Life  !  we've  been  long  together 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather  ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear  ; 
— Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 
Choose  thine  own  time  ; 

Say   not    Good    Night, — but  in  some  brighter 
clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning. 

A.  L.  Barbauld 


CCVIII 

MUSES 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow, 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  the  East, 

The  chambers  of  the  sun,  that  now 
From  ancient  melody  have  ceased  ; 

Whether  in  Heaven  ye  wander  fair, 
Or  the  green  corners  of  the  earth, 

Or  the  blue  regions  of  the  air, 
Where  the  melodious  winds  have  birth  ; 

Whether  on  crystal  rocks  ye  rove 
Beneath  the  bosom  of  the  sea, 

Wandering  in  many  a  coral  grove, — 
Fair  Nine,  forsaking  Poetry  ; 

How  have  you  left  the  ancient  love 
That  bards  of  old  enjoy 'd  in  you  ! 

The  languid  strings  do  scarcely  move, 
The  sound  is  forced,  the  notes  are  few0 
W.  Blake 

ccix 
ODE   ON  THE  POETS 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ? 


198  BOOK 

— Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns 
Browsed  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not ; 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 

Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  w?y  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week  ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites  ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim  : 
Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-lived  in  regions  new  ! 

•/.  Keats 


FOURTH  199 


ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAPMAN'S 
HOMER 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold 
And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 
Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 

Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  : 

Vet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 

Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 

— Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken ; 
Or  like  stout  Cortez,  when  with  eagle  eyes 

He  stared  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 
Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

/.  Keats 


CCXI 

LOVE 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  mid-way  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 


200  BOOK 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 
She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  lay, 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope  !  my  joy  !  my  Genevieve  ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  play'd  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story— 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace  ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ! 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  that  bold  and  lovely  Knigh. 
And  that  he  cross'd  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 


FOURTH  201 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright  ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend. 
This  miserable  Knight  ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leap'd  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land  ;— 

And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees  j 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  ; — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave, 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ; — 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb' d  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrill'd  my  guileless  Genevieve  ; 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherish'd  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blush'd  with  love,  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepp'd  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 


202  BOOK 

She  half  inclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  press'd  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up, 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  loye,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel,  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


CCXII 

ALL  FOR  LOVE 

0  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story  ; 
The  days  of  our  youth  are  the  days  of  our  glory  ; 
And  the  myrtle  and  ivy  of  sweet  two-and-twenty 
Are  worth  all  your  laurels,  though  ever  so  plenty. 

What  are  garlands  and  crowns  to  the  brow  that  is 
wrinkled  ? 

'Tis  but  as  a  dead  flower  with  May-dew  be- 
sprinkled : 

Then  away  with  all  such  from  the  head  that  is 
hoary — 

What  care  I  for  the  wreaths  that  can  only  give  glory  ? 

Oh  fame  ! — if  I  e'er  took  delight  in  thy  praises, 
'Twas  less  for  the  sake  of  thy  high-sounding  phrases, 
Than  to  see  the  bright  eyes  of  the  dear  one  discover 
She  thought  that  I  was  not  unworthy  to  love  her. 

There  chiefly  I  sought  thee,  there  only  I  found  thee  ; 
Her  glance  was  the  best  of  the  rays  that  surround  thee  ; 
When  it  sparkled  o'er  aught  that  was  bright  in  mj 
story, 

1  knew  it  was  love,  and  I  felt  it  was  glory. 

Lord  Byron 


FOURTH  203 

CCXIII 

THE  OUTLAW 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 

Would  grace  a  summer-queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton-Hall 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  Maiden  on  the  castle-wall 

Was  singing  merrily : 

*  O  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fairy 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 
Than  reign  our  English  queen.' 

'If,  Maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down. 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shall  thou  speed 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May.' 
Yet  sung  she,  *  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen. 

'  I  read  you,  by  your  bugle-horn 

And  by  your  palfrey  good, 
I  read  you  for  a  ranger  sworn 

To  keep  the  king's  greenwood.' 

*  A  Ranger,  lady,  winds  his  horn, 

And  'tis  at  peep  of  light ; 
His  blast  is  heard  at  merry  morn, 

And  mine  at  dead  of  night.' 
Yet  sung  she,  *  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  gay  ; 
I  would  I  were  with  Edmund  there 

To  reign  his  Queen  of  May  ! 


204  BOOK 

1  With  burnish'd  brand  and  rnusketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum.' 
'  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear  ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 
And  O  !  though  Brignall  banks  be  fail 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May  ! 

'  Maiden  !  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I'll  die  ; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead 

Were  better  mate  than  I  ! 
And  when  I'm  with  my  comrades  met 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, — 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now.' 

Chorus 

*  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer-queen.' 

Sir  W.  Scott 


ccxiv 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 

With  a  magic  like  Thee  ; 
And  like  music  on  the  waters 

Is  thy  sweet  voice  to  me  : 
When,  as  if  its  sound  were  causing 
The  charmed  ocean's  pausing. 
The  waves  lie  still  and  gleaming, 
And  the  lull'd  winds  seem  dreaming  : 


FOURTH  205 

And  the  midnight  moon  is  weaving 
Her  bright  chain  o'er  the  deep, 

Whose  breast  is  gently  heaving 
As  an  infant's  asleep  : 

So  the  spirit  bows  before  thee 

To  listen  and  adore  thee  ; 

With  a  full  but  soft  emotion, 

Like  the  swell  of  Summer's  ocean. 
Lord  Byron 


CCXV 

THE  INDIAN  SERENADE 

I  arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber-window,  Sweet ! 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  champak  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint 
It  dies  upon  her  heart, 
As  I  must  die  on  thine 

0  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 

Oh  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

1  die,  I  faint,  I  fail  ! 

Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas  ! 
My  heart  beats  load  and  fast ; 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


206  BOOK 


She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies, 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  ; 
Thus  mellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 
Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 
Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, — 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

Lord  Byron 

ccxvir 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament  ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair  ; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn  ; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 


FOURTH  207 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill  ; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

W.   Wordsworth 


She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 

As  many  maidens  be  ; 
Her  loveliness  I  never  knew 

Until  she  smiled  on  me. 
O  then  I  saw  her  eye  was  bright, 
A  well  of  love,  a  spring  of  light. 

But  now  her  looks  are  coy  and  cold, 

To  mine  they  ne'er  reply, 
And  yet  I  cease  not  to  behold 

The  love-light  in  her  eye  : 
Her  very  frowns  are  fairer  far 
Than  smiles  of  other  maidens  are. 

H.  Coleridge 


208  BOOK 


I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  ; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 
Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion  ; 
Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 
With  which  I  worship  thine. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove  ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise, 

And  very  few  to  love. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone 

Half-hidden  from  the  eye  ! 
— Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 

Is  shining  in  the  sky. 

She  lived  unknown,  and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ; 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and,  oh, 

The  difference  to  me  ! 

W.   Wordsworth 


I  travell'd  among  unknown  men 
In  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 

Nor,  England  !  did  I  know  till  then 
What  love  I  bore  to  thee. 


FOURTH  209 

'Tis  past,  that  melancholy  dream  ! 

Nor  will  I  quit  thy  shore 
A  second  time  ;  for  still  I  seem 

To  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Among  thy  mountains  did  I  feel 

The  joy  of  my  desire  ; 
And  she  I  cherish'd  turn'd  her  wheel 

Beside  an  English  fire. 

Thy  mornings  show'd,  thy  nights  conceai'c 
The  bowers  where  Lucy  play'd  ; 

And  thine  too  is  the  last  green  field 
That  Lucy's  eyes  survey'd. 

W.   Wordsworth 


THE  EDUCATION  OF  NATURE 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower  ; 

Then  Nature  said,  '  A  lovelier  flower 

On  earth  was  never  sown  : 

This  Child  I  to  myself  will  take  ; 

She  shall  be  mine,  and  I  will  make 

A  lady  of  my  own. 

'  Myself  will  to  my  darling  be 

Both  law  and  impulse  :  and  with  me 

The  girl,  in  rock  and  plain, 

In  earth  and  heaven,  in  glade  and  bower, 

Shall  feel  an  overseeing  power 

To  kindle  or  restrain. 

'  She  shall  be  sportive  as  the  fawn 
That  wild  with  glee  across  the  lawn 
Or  up  the  mountain  springs  ; 
And  her's  shall  be  the  breathing  balm, 
And  her's  the  silence  and  the  calm 
Of  mute  insensate  things. 
P 


BOOK        / 

'  The  floating  clouds  their  state  shall  lend 

To  her  ;  for  her  the  willow  bend  ; 

Nor  shall  she  fail  to  see 

Ev'n  in  the  motions  of  the  storm 

Grace  that  shall  mould  the  maiden's  form 

By  silent  sympathy. 

'  The  stars  of  midnight  shall  be  dear 

To  her  ;  and  she  shall  lean  her  ear 

In  many  a  secret  place 

Where  rivulets  dance  their  wayward  round, 

And  beauty  born  of  murmuring  sound 

Shall  pass  into  her  face. 

'  And  vital  feelings  of  delight 

Shall  rear  her  form  to  stately  height, 

Her  virgin  bosom  swell ; 

Such  thoughts  to  Lucy  I  will  give 

While  she  and  I  together  live 

Here  in  this  happy  dell.J 

Thus  Nature  spake — The  work  was  done — 

How  soon  my  Lucy's  race  was  run  ! 

She  died,  and  left  to  me 

This  heath>  this  calm  and  quiet  scene  ; 

The  memory  of  what  has  been, 

And  never  more  will  be. 

W.  Wordsworth 

CCXXIII 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ; 

I  had  no  human  fears  : 
She  seem'd  a  thing  that  could  not  feel 

The  touch  of  earthly  years. 

No  motion  has  she  now,  no  force  ; 

She  neither  hears  nor  sees  ; 
Roll'd  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 

With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees. 

W.    Wordsworth 


FOURTH  an 

CCXXIV 

A  LOST  LOVE 

I  meet  thy  pensive,  moonlight  face  ; 

Thy  thrilling  voice  I  hear  ; 
And  former  hours  and  scenes  retrace, 

Too  fleeting,  and  too  dear  ! 

Then  sighs  and  tears  flow  fast  and  free, 

Though  none  is  nigh  to  share  ; 
And  life -has  nought  beside  for  me 

So  sweet  as  this  despair. 

There  are  crush'd  hearts  that  will  not  break ; 

And  mine,  methinks,  is  one  ; 
Or  thus  I  should  not  weep  and  wake, 

And  thou  to  slumber  gone. 

I  little  thought  it  thus  could  be 

In  days  more  sad  and  fair — 
That  earth  could  have  a  place  for  me, 

And  thou  no  longer  there. 

Yet  death  cannot  our  hearts  divide, 

Or  make  thee  less  my  own  : 
'Twere  sweeter  sleeping  at  thy  side 

Than  watching  here  alone. 

Yet  never,  never  can  we  part, 

While  Memory  holds  her  reign  : 
Thine,  thine  is  still  this  wither'd  heart, 

Till  we  shall  meet  again. 

ff.  F.  Lyte 

ccxxv 
LORD  ULLIWS  DAUGHTER 

A  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 
Cries  *  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 
And  I'll  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry  ! ' 
P   2 


BOOK 

*  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ? ' 

*  O  I'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle, 
And  this,  Lord  Ullin's  daughter 

*  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we've  fled  together, 
For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

*  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride — 
Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  chaer  my  bonny  bride, 
When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ? ' 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

*  I'll  go,  my  chief,  I'm  ready  : 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 
But  for  your  winsome  lady  : — 

'  And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 
In  danger  shall  not  tarry ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white 
I'll  row  you  o'er  the  ferry.' 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace, 
The  water-wraith  was  shrieking  ; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  Heaven  each  face 
Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 
And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 
Their  trampling  sounded  nearer. 

;  O  haste  thee,  haste  ! '  the  lady  cries, 
'  Though  tempests  round  us  gather  ; 
I'll  meet  the  raging  of  the  skies, 
But  not  an  angry  father.' 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her, — 

When,  oh  !  too  strong  for  human  hand 

The  tempest  gather'd  o'er  her. 


FOURTH  213 

And  still  they  row'd  amidst  the  roar 
Of  waters  fast  prevailing  : 
Lord  Ullin  reach'd  that  fatal  shore,— 
His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 

For,  sore  dismay 'd,  through  storm  and  shade 
His  child  he  did  discover  ; — 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretch'd  for  aid, 
And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

*  Come  back  !  come  back  ! '  he  cried  in  grief 
'  Across  this  stormy  water  : 
And  I'll  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 
My  daughter  ! — Oh,  my  daughter  ! ' 

'Twas  vain  :  the  loud  waves  lash'd  the  shore, 
Return  or  aid  preventing  : 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 
And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

71   Campbell 

ccxxvi 
LUCY  GRAY 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray : 
And  when  I  cross'd  the  wild, 
I  chanced  to  see  at  break  of  day 
The  solitary  child. 

No  mate,  no  comrade  Lucy  knew  ; 
She  dwelt  on  a  wide  moor, 
The  sweetest  thing  that  ever  grew 
Beside  a  human  door  ! 

You  yet  may  spy  the  fawn  at  play, 
The  hare  upon  the  green  ; 
But  the  sweet  face  of  Lucy  Gray 
Will  never  more  be  seen. 

*  To-night  will  be  a  stormy  night — 
You  to  the  town  must  go ; 
And  take  a  lantern,  Child,  to  light 
Your  mother  through  the  snow.' 


214  BOOK 

'  That,  Father  !  will  I  gladly  do  : 
'Tis  scarcely  afternoon- — 
The  minster-clock  has  just  struck  twos 
And  yonder  is  the  moon  ! ' 

At  this  the  father  raised  his  hook, 
And  snapp'd  a  faggot-band  ; 
He  plied  his  work  ;— and  Lucy  took 
The  lantern  in  her  hand. 

Not  blither  is  the  mountain  roe  : 
With  many  a  wanton  stroke 
Her  feet  disperse  the  powdery  snow, 
That  rises  up  like  smoke. 

The  storm  came  on  before  its  time  : 
She  wander'd  up  and  down  ; 
And  many  a  hill  did  Lucy  climb  : 
But  never  reach'd  the  town. 

The  wretched  parents  all  that  night 
Went  shouting  far  and  wide ; 
But  there  was  neither  sound  nor  sight 
To  serve  them  for  a  guide. 

At  day-break  on  a  hill  they  stood 
That  overlook'd  the  moor  ; 
And  thence  they  saw  the  bridge  of  wood 
A  furlong  from  their  door. 

They  wept — and,  turning  homeward,  cried 
*  In  heaven  we  all  shall  meet ! ' 
— When  in  the  snow  the  mother  spied 
The  print  of  Lucy's  feet. 

Then  downwards  from  the  steep  hill's  edge 
They  track'd  the  footmarks  small ; 
And  through  the  broken  hawthorn  hedge, 
And  by  the  long  stone- wall :   • 

And  then  an  open  field  they  cross'd : 
The  marks  were  still  the  same  ; 
They  track'd  them  on,  nor  ever  lost ; 
And  to  the  bridge  they  came  : 


FOURTH  215 

They  follow'd  from  the  snowy  bank 
Those  footmarks,  one  by  one, 
Into  the  middle  of  the  plank  ; 
And  further  there  were  none  ! 

— Yet  some  maintain  that  to  this  day 
She  is  a  living  child  ; 
That  you  may  see  sweet  Lucy  Gray 
Upon  the  lonesome  wild. 

O'er  rough  and  smooth  she  trips  along, 
And  never  looks  behind  ; 
And  sings  a  solitary  song 
That  whistles  in  the  wind. 

W.    Wordsworth 


JOCK  OF  HAZELDEAN 

'  Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I'll  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride  : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen ' — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  faj 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

'  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale  ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale  ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  -sword  in  battle  keen ' — 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

'  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 
Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair, 

Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 
Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair  ; 


216  BOOK 

And  you  the  foremost  o'  them  a* 
Shall  ride  our  forest-queen ' — 

But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa* 
For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  deck'd  at  morning-tide, 

The  tapers  glimmer'd  fair  ; 
The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there  : 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bower  and  ha* ; 

The  ladie  was  not  seen  ! 
She's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa* 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCXXVIII 

LOVES  PHILOSOPHY 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  heaven  mix  for  ever 
With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single, 
All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle — • 
Why  not  I  with  thine  ? 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  heaven, 
And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 
If  it  disdain'd  its  brother : 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 
And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea— 
What  are  all  these  kissings  worth, 
If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

P.  £.  SheUey 


FOURTH  217 

CCXXIX 

ECHOES 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 
To  Music  at  night 

When,  roused  by  lute  or  horn,  she  wakes, 
And  far  away  o'er  lawns  and  lakes 
Goes  answering  light  ! 

Yet  Love  hath  echoes  truer  far 

And  far  more  sweet 

Than  e'er,  beneath  the  moonlight's  star, 

Of  horn  or  lute  or  soft  guitar 

The  songs  repeat. 

JJis  when  the  sigh, — in  youth  sincere 
And  only  then,    . 

The  sigh  that's  breathed  for  one  to  hear — 
Is  by  that  one,  that  only  Dear 
Breathed  back  again. 

T.  Moore 


CCXXX 

A  SERENADE 

Ah  !  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea, 
The  orange- flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  thrill'd  all  day, 

Sits  hush'd  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour, 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  Beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  Cavalier. 


2i8  BOOK 

s 

The  star  of  Love,  all  stars  above,  . 
Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 

And  high  and  low  the  influence  know- 
But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 
SYr  W. 


TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Gem  of  the  crimsom-colour'd  Even, 
Companion  of  retiring  day, 
Why  at  the  closing  gates  of  heaven, 
Beloved  Star,  dost  thou  delay  ? 

So  fair  thy  pensile  beauty  burns 
When  soft  the  tear  of  twilight  flows  ; 
So  due  thy  plighted  love  returns 
To  chambers  brighter  'than  the  rose  ; 

To  Peace,  to  Pleasure,  and  to  Love 
So  kind  a  star  thou  seem'st  to  be, 
Sure  some  enamour'd  orb  above 
Descends  and  burns  to  meet  with  thee. 

Thine  is  the  breathing,  blushing  hour 
When  all  unheavenly  passions  fly, 
Chased  by  the  soul-subduing  power 
Of  Love's  delicious  witchery. 

O  !  sacred  to  the  fall  of  day 
Queen  of  propitious  stars,  appear. 
And  early  rise,  and  long  delay, 
When  Caroline  herself  is  here  ! 

Shine  on  her  chosen  green  resort 
Whose  trees  the  sunward  summit  crown, 
And  wanton  flowers,  that  well  may  court 
An  angel's  feet  to  tread  them  down  :-— 

Shine  on  her  sweetly  scented  road 
Thou  star  of  evening's  purple  dome, 
That  lead'st  the  nightingale  abroad, 
And  guid'st  the  pilgrim  to  his  home- 


FOURTH  219 

Shine  where  my  charmer's  sweeter  breath 
Embalms  the  soft  exhaling  dew, 
Where  dying  winds  a  sigh  bequeath 
To  kiss  the  cheek  of  rosy  hue  : — 

Where,  winnow'd  by  the  gentle  air, 
Her  silken  tresses  darkly  flow 
And  fall  upon  her  brow  so  fair, 
Like  shadows  on  the  mountain  snow. 

Thus,  ever  thus,  at  day's  decline 
In  converse  sweet  to  wander  far — 
O  bring  with  thee  my  Caroline, 
And  thou  shalt  be  my  Ruling  Star  ! 

T.  Campbell 


CCXXXII 

TO  THE  NIGHT 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night  ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave 
Where,  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight  ! 

Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  gray 

Star-inwrought ; 

Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day, 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out : 
Then  wander  o'er  city  and  sea  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand— 

Come,  long-sought ! 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee  ; 

When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone, 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turn'd  to  his  rest 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sigh'd  for  thee. 


BOOK 

Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? 

Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 

Murmur'd  like  a  noon-tide  bee 

Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied 
No,  not  thee  ! 

Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 

Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 
Come  soon,  soon  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCXXXIII 

TO  A  DISTANT  FRIEND 

> 

Why  art  thou  silent  ?     Is  thy  love  a  plant 
Of  such  weak  fibre  that  the  treacherous  air 
Of  absence  withers  what  was  once  so  fair  ? 
Is  there  no  debt  to  pay,  no  boon  to  grant  ? 

Yet  have  my  thoughts  for  thee  been  vigilant, 
Bound  to  thy  service  with  unceasing  care — 
The  mind's  least  generous  wish  a  mendicant 
For  nought  but  what  thy  happiness  could  spare. 

Speak  ! — though  this  soft  warm  heart,  once  free  to 

hold 

A  thousand  tender  pleasures,  thine  and  mine, 
Be  left  more  desolate,  more  dreary  cold 

Than  a  forsaken  bird's-nest  fill'd  with  snow 
'Mid  its  own  bush  of  leafless  eglantine — 
Speak,  that  my  torturing  doubts  their  end  may  know  \ 

W.  Wordsworth 


FOURTH  221 


CCXXXIV 

When  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 

Half  broken-hearted, 

To  sever  for  years, 

Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss  ; 

Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  th:s  ! 

The  dew  of  the  morning 
Sunk  chill  on  my  brow  ; 
It  felt  like  the  warning 
Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 
And  light  is  thy  fame  : 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken 
And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 
A  knell  to  mine  ear  ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 
Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee 
Who  knew  thee  too  well : 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 
Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met : 

In  silence  I  grieve 

That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 

If  I  should  meet  thee 

After  long  years, 

How  should  I  greet  thee  ? — 

With  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron 


222  BOOK 


ccxxxv 
HAPPY  INSENSIBILITY 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 

Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 

The  north  cannot  undo  them 

With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them 

Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 

From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 
Apollo's  summer  look  ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 
About  the  frozen  time. 

Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 
A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 
Writhed  not  at  passed  joy  ? 
To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 
When  there  is  none  to  heal  it 
Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it — 
Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

J.  Keats 


CCXXXVI 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 
Whom  the  fates  sever 

From  his  true  maiden's  breast 
Parted  for  ever  ? 


FOURTH  223 

Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high 

Sounds  the  far  billow, 
Where  early  violets  die 

Under  the  willow. 
Eleu  loro 

Soft  shall  be  his  pillow. 

There  through  the  summer  day 

Cool  streams  are  laving  : 
There,  while  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving  ; 
There  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take, 

Parted  for  ever, 
Never  again  to  wake 

Never,  O  never  ! 
Eleu  loro 

Never,  O  never! 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He,  the  deceiver,  I 

Who  could  win  maiden's  breast, 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying  ; 
Eleu  loro 

There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  falsehearted  ; 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap 

Ere  life  be  parted  : 

Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever  ; 

Blessing  shall  hallow  it 
Never,  O  never  ! 

Eleu  loro 
Never >  0  never  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


224  BOOK 

CCXXXVII 

LA  BELLE  DAME  SANS  MERC1 

'  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms, 

Alone  and  palely  loitering  ? 
The  sedge  has  wither'd  from  the  lake, 

And  no  birds  sing. 

'  O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms  ! 

So  haggard  and  so  woe-begone  ? 
The  squirrel's  granary  is  full, 

And  the  harvest's  done. 

'  I  see  a  lily  on  thy  brow 

With  anguish  moist  and  fever-dew, 
And  on  thy  cheeks  a  fading  rose 

Fast  withereth  too.' 

1 1  met  a  lady  in  the  meads, 
Full  beautiful — a  faery's  child, 

Her  hair  was  long,  her  foot  was  light, 
And  her  eyes  were  wild. 

1 1  made  a  garland  for  her  head, 

And  bracelets  too,  and  fragrant  zone  ; 

She  look'd  at  me  as  she  did  love, 
And  made  sweet  moan. 

*  I  set  her  on  my  pacing  steed 
And  nothing  else  saw  all  day  long, 

For  sidelong  would  she  bend,  and  sing 
A  faery's  song. 

'She  found  me  roots  of  relish  sweet, 
And  honey  wild  and  manna-dew, 

And  sure  in  language  strange  she  said 
"I  love  thee  true." 

1  She  took  me  to  her  elfin  grot, 
And  there  she  wept  and  sigh'd  full  sore  ; 

And  there  I  shut  her  wild  wild  eyes 
With  kisses  four. 


FOURTH  225 

'  And  there  she  lulled  me  asleep, 
And  there  I  dream'd — Ah  !  woe  betide  ! 

The  latest  dream  I  ever  dream'd 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

'  I  saw  pale  kings  and  princes  too, 

Pale  warriors,  death -pale  were  they  all : 

They  cried — "  La  belle  Dame  sans  Merci 
Hath  thee  in  thrall !  " 

*  I  saw  their  starved  lips  in  the  gloam 

With  horrid  warning  gaped  wide, 
And  I  awoke  and  found  me  here 
On  the  cold  hill's  side. 

*  And  this  is  why  I  sojourn  here 

Alone  and  palely  loitering, 
Though  the  sedge  is  wither'd  from  the  lake. 
And  no  birds  sing.' 

/.  Keats 


CCXXXVIII 

THE  ROVER 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn  thy  brow  to  braid. 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine. 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew 
My  Love  ! 
No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

*  This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 
The  rose  is  budding  fain  ; 

But  she  shall  bloom  in  winter  snow 
Ere  we  two  meet  again.' 
Q 


226  BOOK 

He  turn'd  his  charger  as  he  spake 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  the  bridle-reins  a  shake, 
Said  *  Adieu  for  evermore 
My  Love  ! 
And  adieu  for  evermore.' 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCXXXIX 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  LOVE 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — 
When  the  cloud  is  scatter'd, 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remember' d  not ; 
When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 

As  music  and  splendour 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruin'd  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest ; 

The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possesst. 

O  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier  ? 


FOURTH  227 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCXL 
THE  MAID  OF  NEIDPATH 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see, 

And  lovers'  ears  in  hearing ; 
And  love,  in  life's  extremity, 

Can  lend  an  hour  of  cheering. 
Disease  had  been  in  Mary's  bower 

And  slow  decay  from  mourning, 
Though  now  she  sits  on  Neidpath's  tower 

To  watch  her  Love's  returning. 

All  sunk  and  dim  her  eyes  so  bright, 

Her  form  decay'd  by  pining, 
Till  through  her  wasted  hand,  at  night, 

You  saw  the  taper  shining. 
By  fits  a  sultry  hectic  hue 

Across  her  cheek  was  flying  ; 
By  fits  so  ashy  pale  she  grew 

Her  maidens  thought  her  dying. 

Yet  keenest  powers  to  see  and  hear 

Seem'd  in  her  frame  residing  ; 
Before  the  watch-dog  prick'd  his  ear 

She  heard  her  lover's  riding  ; 
Ere  scarce  a  distant  form  was  kenn'd 

She  knew  and  waved  to  greet  him, 
And  o'  er  the  battlement  did  bend 

As  on  the  wing  to  meet  him. 
Q  2 


228  BOOK 

He  came — he  pass'd — an  heedless  gaze 

As  o'er  some  stranger  glancing  ; 
Her  welcome,  spoke  in  faltering  phrase, 

Lost  in  his  courser's  prancing — 
The  castle-arch,  whose  hollow  tone 

Returns  each  whisper  spoken, 
Could  scarcely  catch  the  feeble  moan 

Which  told  her  heart  was  broken. 

Sir  W.  Scoti 


Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child, 
And,  smit  with  grief  to  view  her — 

The  youth,  he  cried,  whom  I  exiled 
Shall  be  restored  to  woo  her. 

She's  at  the  window  many  an  hour 

His  coming  to  discover  : 
And  he  look'd  up  to  Ellen's  bower 

And  she  look'd  on  her  lover — 

But  ah  !  so  pale,  he  knew  her  not, 

Though  her  smile  on  him  was  dwelling-- 

And  am  I  then  forgot — forgot  ? 
It  broke  the  heart  of  Ellen. 

In  vain  he  weeps,  in  vain  he  sighs, 

Her  cheek  is  cold  as  ashes  ; 
Nor  love's  own  kiss  shall  wake  those  eyes 

To  lift  their  silken  lashes. 

T.   Campbell 


Bright  Star  !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art- 
Not  in  lone  splendour  hung  aloft  the  night, 
And  watching,  with  eternal  lids  apart, 
Like  Nature's  patient  sleepless  Eremite, 


FOURTH  229 

The  moving  waters  at  their  priestlike  task 
Of  pure  ablution  round  earth's  human  shores, 
Or  gazing  on  the  new  soft  fallen  mask 
Of  snow  upon  the  mountains  and  the  moors  :-^ 

No — yet  still  steadfast,  still  unchangeable, 
Pillow'd  upon  my  fair  Love's  ripening  breast 
To  feel  for  ever  its  soft  fall  and  swell, 
Awake  for  ever  in  a  sweet  unrest ; 

Still,  still  to  hear  her  tender-taken  breath, 
And  so  live  ever, — or  else  swoon  to  death. 
/.  Keats 


CCXLIII 

THE  TERROR  OF  DEATH 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be 
Before  my  pen  has  glean'd  my  teeming  brain, 
Before  high-piled  books,  in  charact'ry 
Hold  like  rich  garners  the  full-ripen'd  grain  ; 

i 

When  I  behold,  upon  the  night's  starr'd  face, 
Huge  cloudy  symbols  of  a  high  romance, 
And  think  that  I  may  never  live  to  trace 
Their  shadows,  with  the  magic  hand  of  chance 

And  when  I  feel,  fair  Creature  of  an  hour  ! 
That  I  shall  never  look  upon  thee  more, 
Never  have  relish  in  the  faery  power 
Of  unreflecting  love — then  on  the  shore 

Of  the  wide  world  I  stand  alone,  and  think 
Till  Love  and  Fame  to  nothingness  do  sink. 

Keats 


230  BOOK 


CCXLIV 

DESIDERIA 

Surprized  by  joy — impatient  as  the 
I  turn'd  to  share  the  transport — Oh  !  with  whom 
But  Thee — deep  buried  in  the  silent  tomb, 
That  spot  which  no  vicissitude  can  find  ? 

Ix)ve,  faithful  love  recall'd  thee  to  my  mind — 
But  how  could  I  forget  thee  ?     Through  what  powei 
Even  for  the  least  division  of  an  hour 
Have  I  been  so  beguiled  as  to  be  blind 

To  my  most  grievous  loss  ! — That  thought's  return 
Was  the  worst  pang  that  sorrow  ever  bore 
Save  one,  one  only,  when  I  stood  forlorn, 

Knowing  my  heart's  best  treasure  was  no  more  ; 
That  neither  present  time,  nor  years  unborn 
Could  to  my  sight  that  heavenly  face  restore. 

W.    Wordsworth 


CCXLV 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping, 

I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm  in 

thine  eye ; 
And  I  think  oft,  if  spirits  can  steal  from  the  regions 

of  air 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,,  thou  wilt  come  to 

me  there 
And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  even  in  the  sky  ! 

Then  I  sing  the  wild  song  it  once  was  rapture  to  hear 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed  like  one  on 

the  ear ; 
And  as  Echo  far  off  through  the  vale  my  sad  orison 

rolls, 


FOURTH  23X 

I  think,  oh  my  Love  !  'tis  thy  voice,  from  the  King- 
dom of  Souls 

Faintly  answering  still  the  notes  that  once  were  so 
dear. 

T.  Moofe 


CCXLVI 
ELEGY  ON  THYRZA 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 

As  aught  of  mortal  birth  ; 
And  forms  so  soft  and  charms  so  rare 

Too  soon  return'd  to  Earth  ! 
Though  Earth  received  them  in  her  bed, 
And  o'er  the  spot  the  crowd  may  tread 

In  carelessness  or  mirth, 
There  is  an  eye  which  could  not  brook 
A  moment  on  that  grave  to  look. 

I  will  not  ask  where  thou  liest  low 

Nor  gaze  upon  the  spot ; 
There  flowers  or  weeds  at  will  may  grow 

So  I  behold  them  not : 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  prove 
That  what  I  loved,  and  long  must  love, 

Like  common  earth  can  rot ; 
To  me  there  needs  no  stone  to  tell 
'Tis  Nothing  that  I  loved  so  well. 

Yet  did  I  love  thee  to  the  last, 

As  fervently  as  thou 
Who  didst  not  change  through  all  the  past 

And  canst  not  alter  now.      " 
The  love  where  Death  has  set  his  seal 
Nor  age  can  chill,  nor  rival  steal, 

Nor  falsehood  disavow : 
And,  what  were  worse,  thou  canst  not  see 
Or  wrong,  or  change,  or  fault  in  me. 


232  BOOK 

The  better  days  of  life  were  ours  ; 

The  worst  can  be  but  mine  : 
The  sun  that  cheers,  the  storm  that  lours, 

Shall  never  more  l>e  thine. 
The  silence  of  that  dreamless  sleep 
I  envy  now  too  much  to  weep  ; 

Nor  need  I  to  repine 
That  all  those  charms  have  pass'd  away 
I  might  have  watch'd  through  long  decay 

The  flower  in  ripen'd  bloom  unmatch'd 

Must  fall  the  earliest  prey  ; 
Though  by  no  hand  untimely  snatch'd, 

The  leaves  must  drop  away. 
And  yet  it  were  a  greater  grief 
To  watch  it  withering,  leaf  by  leaf, 

Than  see  it  pluck'd  today  ; 
Since  earthly  eye  but  ill  can  bear 
To  trace  the  change  to  foul  from  fair. 
I  know  not  if  I  could  have  borne 

To  see  thy  beauties  fade  ; 
The  night  that  folio w'd  such  a  morn 

Had  worn  a  deeper  shade  : 
Thy  day  without  a  cloud  hath  past, 
And  thou  wert  Lovely  to  the  last, 

Extinguish'd,  not  decay'd ; 
As  stars  that  shoot  along  the  sky 
Shine  brightest  as  they  fall  from  high. 

As  once  I  wept,  if  I  could  weep, 

My  tears  might  well  be  shed 
To  think  I  was  not  near,  to  keep 

One  vigil  o'er  thy  bed  : 
To  gaze,  how  fondly  !  on  thy  face, 
To  fold  thee  in  a  faint  embrace, 

Uphold  thy  drooping  head  ; 
And  show  that  love,  however  vain, 
Nor  thou  nor  I  can  feel  again. 

Yet  how  much  less  it  were  to  gain, 
Though  thou  hast  left  me  free, 

The  loveliest  things  that  still  remain 
Than  thus  remember  thee  ! 


FOURTH 

The  all  of  thine  that  cannot  die 
Through  dark  and  dread  Eternity 

Returns  again  to  me, 
And  more  thy  buried  love  endears 
Than  aught  except  its  living  years. 

Lord  Byron 


CCXLVII 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdain'd 

For  thee  to  disdain  it.» 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love ; 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not  : 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCXLVIII 

GATHERING  SONG  OF  DONALD  THE 
BLACK 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Pibroch  of  Donuil 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan  Conuil. 


234  BOOK 

Come  away,  come  away, 
Hark  to  the  summons  ! 

Come  in  your  war-array, 
Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlocky. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one, 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flodc  without  shelter  ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  righting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come,  when 

Forests  are  rended, 
Come  as  the  waves  come,  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set  ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


FOURTH  235 


CCXLIX 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast  ; 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While  like  the  eagle  free 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

O  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind  ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry  ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze 

And  white  waves  heaving  high  ; 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 

There's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud  ; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud  ; 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free — 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

A.  Cunningham 


CCL 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 

That  guard  our  native  seas  ! 

Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  ! 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again 

To  match  another  foe  : 


236  BOOK 

And  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirits  of  your  fathers 
Shall  start  from  every  wave — 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 
And  Ocean  was  their  grave  : 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell 
Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 
While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long 
And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwarks, 

No  towers  along  the  steep  ; 

Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain-waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 

With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below — 

As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow  ; 

When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 
Shall  yet  terrific  burn  ; 
Till  danger's  troubled  night  depart 
And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean -warriors  ! 
Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 
To  the  fame  of  your  name, 
When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  fight  is  heard  no  more, 
And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

T.  Campbell 


FOURTH  23? 


CCLI 

BATTLE  OF  THE  BALTIC 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 

Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 

When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 

All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 

And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone  ; 

By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand 

In  a  bold  determined  hand, 

And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 

Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 

Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine  ; 

While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 

On  the  lofty  British  line  : 

It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime  : 

As  they  drifted  on  their 'path 

There  was  silence  deep  as  death  ; 

And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 

For  a  time. 

But  the  might  of  England  flush'd 

To  anticipate  the  scene  ; 

And  her  van  the  fleeter  rush'd 

O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

'  Hearts  of  oak  ! '  our  captains  cried,  when  each  gun 

From  its  adamantine  lips 

Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 

Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 

Of  the  sun. 

Again  !  again  !  again  ! 

And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 

Till  a -feeble  cheer  the  Dane 

To  our  cheering  sent  us  back  ;— 

Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom  :— 

Then  ceased — and  all  is  wail, 

As  they  strike  the  shatter'd  sail ; 

Or  in  conflagration  pale 

Light  the  gloom. 


238  BOOK 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then 

As  he  hail'd  them  o'er  the  wave, 

'  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 

And  we  conquer  but  to  save  : — 

So  peace  instead  of  death  let  us  bring  : 

But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet 

With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 

And  make  submission  meet 

To  our  King.' 

Then  Denmark  bless'd  our  chief 

That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose  ; 

And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 

From  her  people  wildly  rose, 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day  i 

While  the  sun  look'd  smiling  bright 

O'er  a  wide  and  woeful  sight, 

Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 

Died  away. 

Now  joy,  old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in  light ; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore  ! 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Riou  : 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  Heaven  o'er  their  grave  ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave  ! 

T.  Campbell 


FOURTH  239 


CCLII 
ODE  TO  DUTY 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God  ! 
O  Duty  !  if  that  name  thou  love 
Who  art  a  light  to  guide,  a  rod 
To  check  the  erring,  and  reprove ; 
Thou  who  art  victory  and  law 
When  empty  terrors  overawe  ; 
From  vain  temptations  dost  set  free, 
And  calm'st  the  weary  strife  of  frail  humanity  \ 

There  are  who  ask  not  if  thine  eye 
Be  on  them  ;  who,  in  love  and  truth 
Where  no  misgiving  is,  rely 
Upon  the  genial  sense  of  youth  : 
Glad  hearts  !  without  reproach  or  blot, 
Who  do  thy  work,  and  know  it  not : 
Oh  !  if  through  confidence  misplaced 
They  fail,  thy  saving  arms,  dread  Power  !  around  them 
cast. 

Serene  will  be  our  days  and  bright 
And  happy  will  our  nature  be 
When  love  is  an  unerring  light, 
And  joy  its  own  security. 
And  they  a  blissful  course  may  hold 
Ev'n  now,  who,  not  unwisely  bold, 
Live  in  the  spirit  of  this  creed  ; 
Yet  seek  thy  firm  support,  according  to  their  need. 

I,  loving  freedom,  and  untried, 
No  sport  of  every  random  gust, 
Yet  being  to  myself  a  guide, 
Too  blindly  have  reposed  my  trust : 
And  oft,  when  in  my  heart  was  heard 
Thy  timely  mandate,  I  deferr'd 
The  task,  in  smoother  walks  to  stray  ; 
But  thee  I  now  would  serve  more  strictly,  if  I  may. 


240  BOOK 

Through  no  disturbance  of  my  soul 
Or  strong  compunction  in  me  wrought, 
I  supplicate  for  thy  controul, 
But  in  the  quietness  of  thought : 
Me  this  uncharter'd  freedom  tires  ; 
I  feel  the  weight  of  chance-desires  : 
My  hopes  no  more  must  change  their  name  ; 
I  long  for  a  repose  that  ever  is  the  same. 

Stern  Lawgiver  !  yet  thou  dost  wear 
The  Godhead's  most  benignant  grace  ; 
Nor  know  we  anything  so  fair 
As  is  the  smile  upon  thy  face  : 
Flowers  laugh  before  thee  on  their  beds, 
And  fragrance  in  thy  footing  treads  ; 
Thou  dost  preserve  the  Stars  from  wrong  ; 
And  the  most  ancient  Heavens,  through  Thee,  are  fresh 
and  strong. 

To  humbler  functions,  awful  Power  ! 
I  call  thee  :  I  myself  commend 
Unto  thy  guidance  from  this  hour  ; 
Oh  let  my  weakness  have  an  end  ! 
Give  unto  me,  made  lowly  wise, 
The  spirit  of  self-sacrifice  ; 
The  confidence  of  reason  give  ; 
And  in  the  light  of  truth  thy  Bondman  let  me  live. 

IV.    Wordsworth 


CCLIII 

ON  THE  CASTLE  OF  CHILLON 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind  ! 
Brightest  in  dungeons,  Liberty  !  thou  art, 
For  there  thy  habitation  is  the  heart — 
The  heart  which  love  of  Thee  alone  can  bind  ; 

And  when  thy  sons  to  fetters  are  consign'd, 
To  fetters,  and  the  damp  vault's  dayless  gloom, 
Their  country  conquers  with  their  martyrdom, 
And  Freedom's  fame  finds  wings  on  every  wind. 


FOURTH  241 

Chillon  !  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place 
And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace 

Worn  as  if  thy  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard  !  May  none  those  marks  efface  ! 
For  they  appeal  from  tyranny  to  God. 

Lord  Byron 


CCLIV 

ENGLAND  AND  SWITZERLAND,  1802 

Two  Voices  are  there  ;  one  is  of  the  Sea, 
One  of  the  Mountains  ;  each  a  mighty  voice  : 
In  both  from  age  to  age  thou  didst  rejoice, 
They  were  thy  chosen  music,  Liberty  ! 

There  came  a  tyrant,  and  with  holy  glee 
Thou  fought'st  against  him, — but  hast  vainly  striven  : 
Thou  from  thy  Alpine  holds  at  length  art  driven, 
Where  not  a  torrent  murmurs  heard  by  thee. 

— Of  one  deep  bliss  thine  ear  hath  been  bereft ; 
Then  cleave,  O  cleave  to  that  which  still  is  left — 
For,  high-soul'd  Maid,  what  sorrow  would  it  be 

That  Mountain  floods  should  thunder  as  before, 
And  Ocean  bellow  from  his  rocky  shore, 
And  neither  awful  Voice  be  heard  by  Thee  ! 

W.    Wordsworth 


ON  THE  EXTINCTION  OF  THE  VENETIAN 
REPUBLIC 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee 
And  was  the  safeguard  of  the  West ;  the  worth 
Of  Venice  did  not  fall  below  her  birth, 
Venice,  the  eldest  child  of  Liberty. 
R 


242  BOOK 

She  was  a  maiden  city,  bright  and  free  ; 
No  guile  seduced,  no  force  could  violate  ; 
And  when  she  took  unto  herself  a  mate, 
She  must  espouse  the  everlasting  Sea. 

And  what  if  she  had  seen  those  glories  fade, 
Those  titles  vanish,  and  that  strength  decay, — : 
Yet  shall  some  tribute  of  regret  be  paid 

When  her  long  life  hath  reach'd  its  final  day  : 
Men  are  we,  and  must  grieve  when  even  the  shade 
Of  that  which  once  was  great  is  pass'd  away. 

IV.    Wordsworth 


LONDON,  1802 

O  Friend  !  I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look 

For  comfort,  being,  as  I  am,  opprest 

To  think  that  now  our  life  is  only  drest 

For  show  ;  mean  handy- work  of  craftsman,  cook, 

Or  groom  ! — We  must  run  glittering  like  a  brook 
In  the  open  sunshine,  or  we  are  unblest  ; 
The  wealthiest  man  among  us  is  the  best : 
No  grandeur  now  in  nature  or  in  book 

Delights  us.     Rapine,  avarice,  expense, 
This  is  idolatry  ;  and  these  we  adore  : 
Plain  living  and  high  thinking  are  no  more  r 

The  homely  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause 
Is  gone  ;  our  peace,  our  fearful  innocence, 
And  pure  religion  breathing  household  laws. 

W.   Wordsworth 

CCLVII 

THE  SAME 

Milton  !  thou  shouldst  be  living  at  this  hour  : 
England  hath  need  of  thee  :  she  is  a  fen 
Of  stagnant  waters  :  altar,  sword,  and  pen, 
Fireside,  the  heroic  wealth  of  hall  and  bower, 


FOURTH  243 

Have  forfeited  their  ancient  English  dower 
Of  inward  happiness.     We  are  selfish  men  : 
Oh  !  raise  us  up,  return  to  us  again  ; 
And  give  us  manners,  virtue,  freedom,  power. 

Thy  soul  was  like  a  Star,  and  dwelt  apart  : 
Thou  hadst  a  voice  whose  sound  was  like  the  sea, 
Pure  as  the  naked  heavens,  majestic,  free  ; 

So  didst  thou  travel  on  life's  common  way 
In  cheerful  godliness  ;  and  yet  thy  heart 
The  lowliest  duties  on  herself  did  lay. 
W.  Wordsworth 

' 

CCLVIII 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 
Great  nations  ;  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 
When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 
The  student's  bower  for  gold, — some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  Country  ! — am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 
Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 
Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart 
Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 
In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 
And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled  : 

What  wonder  if  a  Poet  now  and  then, 
Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind, 
Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child  ! 

W.   Wordsworth 


CCLIX 

HOHENLINDEN 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow  ; 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

R    2 


244  BOOK 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight, 
When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  array'd 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neigh'd 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven  ; 
Then  rush'd  the  steed,  to  battle  driven  ; 
And  louder  than  the  bolts  of  Heaven 
Far  flash'd  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  that  light  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  stained  snow  ; 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

'Tis  morn  ;  but  scarce  yon  level  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  Brave 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich  !  all  thy  banners  wave, 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry  ! 

Few,  few  shall  part,  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet, 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 

T.  Campbell 

CCLX 

AFTER  BLENHEIM 

It  was  a  summer  evening, 
Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 

And  he  before  his  cottage  door 
Was  sitting  in  the  sun  ; 

And  by  him  sported  on  the  green 

His  little  grandchild  Wilhelmine, 


FOURTH  245 

She  saw  her  brother  Peterkin 
Roll  something  large  and  round 

Which  he  beside  the  rivulet 
In  playing  there  had  found  ; 

He  came  to  ask  what  he  had  found 

That  was  so  large  and  smooth  and  round. 

Old  Kaspar  took  it  from  the  boy 

Who  stood  expectant  by  ; 
And  then  the  old  man  shook  his  head, 

And  with  a  natural  sigh 
'  'Tis  some  poor  fellow's  skull,'  said  he, 

*  Who  fell  in  the  great  victory. 

*  I  find  them  in  the  garden, 

For  there's  many  here  about ; 
And  often  when  I  go  to  plough 

The  ploughshare  turns  them  out. 
For  many  thousand  men,'  said  he, 

*  Were  slain  in  that  great  victory.' 

1  Now  tell  us  what  'twas  all  about,' 

Young  Peterkin  he  cries ; 
And  little  Wilhelmine  looks  up 

With  wonder- waiting  eyes  ; 

*  Now  tell  us  all  about  the  war, 

And  what  they  fought  each  other  for. ' 

'  It  was  the  English,'  Kaspar  cried, 

*  Who  put  the  French  to  rout ; 
But  what  they  fought  each  other  for 

I  could  not  well  make  out. 
But  everybody  said,'  quoth  he, 

*  That  'twas  a  famous  victory. 

*  My  father  lived  at  Blenheim  then, 

Yon  little  stream  hard  by  ; 
They  burnt  his  dwelling  to  the  ground, 

And  he  was  forced  to  fly  : 
So  with  his  wife  and  child  he  fled, 
Nor  had  he  where  to  rest  his  head. 

*  With  fire  and  sword  the  country  round 

Was  wasted  far  and  wide 


346  BOOK 

And  many  a  childing  mother  then 

And  newborn  baby  died  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
At  every  famous  victory. 

*  They  say  it  was  a  shocking  sight 

After  the  field  was  won  ; 
For  many  thousand  bodies  here 

Lay  rotting  in  the  sun  : 
But  things  like  that,  you  know,  must  be 
After  a  famous  victory. 

'  Great  praise  the  Duke  of  Marlbro'  won 
And  our  good  Prince  Eugene  ; ' 

'  Why  'twas  a  very  wicked  thing  ! ' 
Said  little  Wilhelmine  ; 

'  Nay  .  .  nay  .  .  my  little  girl,'  quoth  he, 

1  It  was  a  famous  victory. 

'  And  everybody  praised  the  Duke 
Who  this  great  fight  did  win.' 

*  But  what  good  came  of  it  at  last  ? 

Quoth  little  Peterkin  : — 
'  Why  that  I  cannot  tell,'  said  he, 

*  But  'twas  a  famous  victory.' 

R.  Southey 


CCLXI 
PRO  PA1R1 A  MORI 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name 

Of  his  fault  and  his  sorrows  behind, 
Oh  !  say  wilt  thou  weep,  when  they  darken  the  fame 

Of  a  life  that  for  thee  was  resign'd  ! 
Yes,  weep,  and  however  my  foes  may  condemn, 

Thy  tears  shall  efface  their  decree  ; 
For,  Heaven  can  witness,  though  guilty  to  them, 

I  have  been  but  too  faithful  to  thee. 


FOURTH  247 

With  thee  were  the  dreams  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

Every  thought  of  my  reason  was  thine  : 
In  my  last  humble  prayer  to  the  Spirit  above 

Thy  name  shall  be  mingled  with  mine  ! 
Oh  !  blest  are  the  lovers  and  friends  who  shall  live 

The  days  of  thy  glory  to  see  ;  * 
But  the  next  dearest  blessing  that  Heaven  can  give 

Is  the  pride  of  thus  dying  for  thee. 

7\  Moore 

CCLXII 

THE  BURIAL  OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE 
AT  CORUNNA 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corpse  to  the  rampart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  sho^ 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sods  with  our  bayonets  turning  ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeam's  misty  light 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning. 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Not  in  sheet  or  in  shroud  we  wound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  that  was  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollow'd  his  narrow  bed 
And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 

That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread   o'er  his 

head, 
And  we  far  away  on  the  billow  ! 

Lightly  they'll  talk  of  the  spirit  that's  gone 
And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him, — 

But  little  he'll  reck,  if  they  let  him  sleep  on 
In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 


248  BOOK 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring : 

And  we  heard  the  distant  and  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing. 

Slowly  and  sadlywe  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory  ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  and  we  raised  not  a  stone, 
But  we  left  him  alone  with  his  glory. 

C.    Wolfe 


CCLXIII 
SIMON  LEE  THE  OLD  HUNTSMAN 

In  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan, 
Not  far  from  pleasant  Ivor  Hall, 
An  old  man  dwells,  a  little  man, — 
'Tis  said  he  once  was  tall. 
Full  five-and-thirty  years  he  lived 
A  running  huntsman  merry  ; 
And  still  the  centre  of  his  cheek 
Is  red  as  a  ripe  cherry. 

No  man  like  him  the  horn  could  sound, 

And  hill  and  valley  rang  with  glee, 

When  Echo  bandied,  round  and  round, 

The  halloo  of  Simon  Lee. 

In  those  proud  days  he  little  cared 

For  husbandry  or  tillage  ; 

To  blither  tasks  did  Simon  rouse 

The  sleepers  of  the  village. 

He  all  the  country  could  outrun, 

Could  leave  both  man  and  horse  behind ; 

And  often ,  ere  the  chase  was  done 

He  reel'd  and  was  stone-blind. 

And  still  there's  something  in  the  world 

At  which  his  heart  rejoices  ; 

For  when  the  chiming  hounds  are  out, 

He  dearly  loves  their  voices. 


FOURTH  249 

But  oh  the  heavy  change  ! — bereft 

Of  health,  strength,  friends  and  kindred,  see  ! 

Old  Simon  to  the  world  is  left 

In  liveried  poverty  : — 

His  master's  dead,  and  no  one  now 

Dwells  in  the  Hall  of  Ivor  ; 

Men,  dogs,  and  horses,  all  are  dead  ; 

He  is  the  sole  survivor. 

And  he  is  lean  and  he  is  sick, 

His  body,  dwindled  and  awry, 

Rests  upon  ankles  swoln  and  thick  ; 

His  legs  are  thin  and  dry. 

One  prop  he  has,  and  only  one, — 

His  wife,  an  aged  woman, 

Lives  with  him,  near  the  waterfall, 

Upon  the  village  common. 

Beside,  their  moss-grown  hut  of  clay, 

Not  twenty  paces  from  the  door, 

A  scrap  of  land  they  have,  but  they 

Are  poorest  of  the  poor. 

This  scrap  of  land  he  from  the  heath 

Enclosed  when  he  was  stronger  ; 

But  what  to  them  avails  the  land 

Which  he  can  till  no  longer  ? 

Oft,  working  by  her  husband's  side, 

Ruth  does  what  Simon  cannot  do  ; 

For  she,  with  scanty  cause  for  pride, 

Is  stouter  of  the  two. 

And,  though  you  with  your  utmost  skill 

From  labour  could  not  wean  them, 

'Tis  little,  very  little,  all 

That  they  can  do  between  them. 

Few  months  of  life  has  he  in  store 
As  he  to  you  will  tell, 
For  still,  the  more  he  works,  the  more 
Do  his  weak  ankles  swell. 
My  gentle  Reader,  I  perceive 
How  patiently  you've  waited, 
And  now  I  fear  that  you  expect 
Some  tale  will  be  related. 


250  BOOK 

O  Reader  !  had  you  in  you/  mind 
Such  stores  as  silent  thought  can  bring, 

0  gentle  Reader  !  you  would  find 
A  tale  in  every  thing. 

What  more  I  have  to  say  is  short, 
And  you  must  kindly  take  it : 
It  is  no  tale  ;  but,  should  you  think, 
Perhaps  a  tale  you'll  make  it. 

One  summer-day  I  chanced  to  see 
This  old  Man  doing  all  he  could 
To  unearth  the  root  of  an  old  tree, 
A  stump  of  rotten  wood. 
The  mattock  totter'd  in  his  hand  ; 
So  vain  was  his  endeavour 
That  at  the  root  of  the  old  tree 
He  might  have  work'd  for  ever. 

'  You're  overtask'd,  good  Simon  Lee, 
Give  me  your  tool,'  to  him  I  said  ; 
And  at  the  word  right  gladly  he 
Received  my  proffer'd  aid. 

1  struck,  and  with  a  single  blow 
The  tangled  root  I  sever'd, 

At  which  the  poor  old  man  so  long 
And  vainly  had  endeavour'd. 

The  tears  into  his  eyes  were  brought, 
And  thanks  and  praises  seem'd  to  run 
So  fast  out  of  his  heart,  I  thought 
They  never  would  have  done. 
^I've  heard  of  hearts  unkind,  kind  deed 
With  coldness  still  returning  ; 
Alas  !  the  gratitude  of  men 
Hath  oftener  left  me  mourning. 

W.   Wordsworth 

CCLXIV 

THE  OLD  FAMILIAR  FACES 

I  have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions, 
In  my  days  of  childhood,  in  my  joyful  school-days* 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 


FOURTH  25^ 

I  have  been  laughing,  I  have  been  carousing, 
Drinking  late,  sitting  late,  with  my  bosom  cronies  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  loved  a  Love  once,  fairest  among  women  : 
Closed  are  her  doors  on  me,  I  must  not  see  her — 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

I  have  a  friend,  a  kinder  friend  has  no  man  : 
Like  an  ingrate,  I  left  my  friend  abruptly  ; 
Left  him,  to  muse  on  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Ghost-like  I  paced  round  the  haunts  of  my  childhood. 
Earth  seem'd  a  desert  I  was  bound  to  traverse, 
Seeking  to  find  the  old  familiar  faces. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  thou  more  than  a  brother, 
Why  wert  not  thou  born  in  my  father's  dwelling  ? 
So  might  we  talk  of  the  old  familiar  faces, 

How  some  they  have  died,  and  some  they  have  left 

me, 

And  some  are  taken  from  me  ;  all  are  departed  ; 
All,  all  are  gone,  the  old  familiar  faces. 

C.  Lamb 


CCLXV 

THE  JOURNE Y  ONWARDS 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 

Against  the  wind  was  cleaving, 
Her  trembling  pennant  still  look'd  back 

To  that  dear  isle  'twas  leaving. 
So  loth  we  part  from  all  we  love, 

From  all  the  links  that  bind  us  ; 
So  turn  our  hearts,  as  on  we  rove, 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

When,  round  the  bowl,  of  vanish'd  years 
We  talk  with  joyous  seeming — 

With  smiles  that  might  as  well  be  tears, 
So  faint,  so  sad  their  beaming  ; 


252  BOOK 

While  memory  brings  us  back  again 

Each  early  tie  that  twined  us, 
Oh,  sweet's  the  cup  that  circles  then 

To  those  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

And  when,  in  other  climes,  we  meet 

Some  isle  or  vale  enchanting, 
Where  all  looks  flowery,  wild,  and  sweet, 

And  nought  but  love  is  wanting  ; 
We  think  how  great  had  been  our  bliss 

If  Heaven  had  but  assign'd  us 
To  live  and  die  in  scenes  like  thi  -, 

With  some  we've  left  behind  us  ! 

As  travellers  oft  look  back  at  eve 

When  eastward  darkly  going, 
To  gaze  upon  that  light  they  leave 

Still  faint  behind  them  glowing, — 
So,  when  the  close  of  pleasure's  day 

To  gloom  hath  near  consign'd  us, 
We  turn  to  catch  one  fading  ray 

Of  joy  that's  left  behind  us. 

T.  Moore 

CCLXVI 
YOUTH  AND  AGE 

There's  not   a  joy  the    world  can  give  like  that  it 

takes  away 
When  the  glow  of  early  thought  declines  in  feeling's 

dull  decay ; 
'Tis  not  on  youth's  smooth   cheek  the  blush  alone, 

which  fades  so  fast, 
But   the   tender   bloom  of  heart  is  gone,  ere  youth 

itself  be  past. 

Then  the  few  whose  spirits  float  above  the  wreck  of 

happiness 

Are  driven  o'er  the  shoals  of  guilt,  or  ocean  of  excess  : 
The  magnet  of  their  course  is  gone,  or  only  points  in 

vain 
The  shore  to  which   their  shiver'd    sail   shall  never 

stretch  again. 


FOURTH  253 

Then  the  mortal  coldness  of  the  soul  like  death  itself 

comes  down ; 
It  cannot  feel  for  others'  woes,  it  dare  not  dream  its 

own ; 
That  heavy  chill  has  frozen  o'er  the  fountain  of  our 

tears, 
And  though  the  eye  may  sparkle  still,  'tis  where  the 

ice  appears. 

Though  wit  may  flash  from  fluent   lips,  and  mirth 

distract  the  breast, 
Through  midnight  hours  that  yield  no  more  their 

former  hope  of  rest ; 

'Tis  but  as  ivy-leaves  around  the  ruin'd  turret  wreathe, 
All  green   and  wildly  fresh  without,   but  worn   and 

gray  beneath. 

Oh  could  I  feel  as  I  have  felt,  or  be  what  I  have  been, 
Or  weep  as  I  could  once  have  wept  o'er  many  a 

vanish'd  scene, — 
As  springs  in  deserts  found  seem  sweet,  all  brackish 

though  they  be, 
So  midst  the  wither'd  waste  of  life,  those  tears  would 

flow  to  me ! 

Lord  Byron 

CCLXVII 
A  LESSON 

Thert  As  a  Flower,  the  lesser  Celandine, 
That  shrinks  like  many  more  from  cold  and  rain, 
And  the  first  moment  that  the  sun  may  shine, 
Bright  as  the  sun  himself,  'tis  out  again  ! 

When  hailstones  have  been  falling,  swarm  on  swarm. 
Or  blasts  the  green  field  and  the  trees  distrest, 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  muffled  up  from  harm 
In  close  self-shelter,  like  a  thing  at  rest. 

But  lately,  one  rough  day,  this  Flower  I  past, 
And  recognized  it,  though  an  alter'd  form, 
Now  standing  forth  an  offering  to  the  blast, 
And  buffeted  at  will  by  rain  and  storm. 


254  fiOOK 

I  stopp'd  and  said,  with  inly-mutter'd  voice, 

*  It  doth  not  love  the  shower,  nor  seek  the  cold ; 

This  neither  is  its  courage  nor  its  choice, 

But  its  necessity  in  being  old. 

'  The  sunshine  may  not  cheer  it,  nor  the  dew ; 

It  cannot  help  itself  in  its  decay  ; 

Stiff  in  its  members,  wither'd.  changed  of  hue,'— 

And,  in  my  spleen,  I  smiled  that  it  was  gray. 

To  be  a  prodigal's  favourite — then,  worse  truth, 

A  miser's  pensioner — behold  our  lot ! 

O  Man !  that  from  thy  fair  and  shining  youth 

Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not ! 

W.  Wordsworth 
CCLXVIII 

PAST  AND  PRESENT 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 

The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 

He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 

But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 

The  violets,  and  the  lily-cups — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 

The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 

The  laburnum  on  his  birth-day8— 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 

And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 

My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 

And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 


FOURTH  255 

f  remember,  I  remember 

The  fir  trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 

Were  close  against  the  sky  : 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  'tb  little  joy 

To  know  I'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

T.  Hood 
CCLXIX 

THE  LIGHT  OF  OTHER  DAYS 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me  : 
The  smiles,  the  tears 
Of  boyhood's  years, 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimm'd  and  gone, 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 
When  I  remember  all 

The  friends  so  link'd  together 
I've  seen  around  me  fall 
Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet-hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed  ! 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  Memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 

T.  Moore 


256  BOOK 

CCLXX 

STANZAS  WRITTEN  IN  DEJECTION 
NEAR  NAPLES 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear," 
The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 
The  purple  noon's  transparent  might : 
The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds 
Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight — 
The  winds',  the  birds',  the  csean-floods* — 

The  city's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 
I  see  the  deep's  untrampled  floor 
With  green  and  purple  sea- weeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore 
Like  light  dissolved  "in  star-showers  thrown  : 
I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone  ; 
The  lightning  of  the  noon- tide  ocean 
Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion — 

HOW  sweet  !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  ?motioa 
Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 
Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content,  surpassing  wealth, 
The  sage  in  meditation  found, 
And  walk'd  with  inward  glory  crown'd — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure  ; 
Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; 

To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 
Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild 
Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 
I  coulcl  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne,  and  yet  must  bear, — 
Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 
My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 

Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  257 


CCLXXI 
THE  SCHOLAR 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past ; 

Around  me  I  behold, 

Wherever  these  casual  eyes  are  cast, 

The  mighty  minds  of  old  : 

My  never-failing  friends  arc  they, 

With  whom  I  converse  day  by  day. 

With  them  I  take  delight  in  weal 

And  seek  relief  \\\  woe  : 

And  while  I  underttand  and  feel 

How  nuch  to  them  I  owe, 

My  cheeks  have  often  been  bedew'd 

With  tears  of  thoughtful  gratitude. 

My  thoughts  are  with  the  Dead  ;  with  them 

I  live  in  long-past  years, 

Their  virtues  love,  their  faults  condemn, 

Partake  their  hopes  and  fears, 

And  from  their  lessons  seek  and  find 

Instruction  with  an  humble  mind. 

My  hopes  are  with  the  Dead  ;  anon 
My  place  with  them  will  be, 
And  I  with  them  shall  travel  on 
Through  all  Futurity ; 
Yet  leaving  here  a  name,  I  trust, 
That  will  not  perish  in  the  dust. 

R.  Southey 

CCLXXI  I 
THE  MERMAID  TA  VERN 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 


258  .BOOK 

Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
Of  venison?  O  generous  food! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  Maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheepskin  gave  the  story, 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new-old  sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 

/.  Keati 


CCLXXIII 

THE  PRIDE  OF  YOUTH 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood, 

Walking  so  early ; 
Sw^et  Robin  sits  on  the  bush, 

Singing  so  rarely. 

'Tell  me,  thou  bonny  bird, 
When  shall  I  marry  me  ? ' 

— '  When  six  braw  gentlemen 
Kirkward  shall  carry  ye.' 

« Who  makes  the  bridal  bed, 

Birdie  say  truly?' 
— *  The  gray-headed  sexton 

That  delves  the  grave  duly. 


FOURTH  259 

'  The  glowworm  o'er  grave  and  stone 

Shall  light  thee  steady  ; 
The  owl  from  the  steeple  sing 

Welcome,  proud  lady.' 

Sir  W.  Scott 


THE  BRIDGE  OF  SIGHS 

One  more  Unfortunate 
Weary  of  breath 
Rashly  importunate, 
Gone  to  her  death  ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 

Look  at  her  garments 
Clinging  like  cerements ; 
Whilst  the  wave  constantly 
Drips  from  her  clothing ; 
Take  her  up  instantly, 
Loving,  not  loathing. 

Touch  her  not  scornfully, 
Think  of  her  mournfully, 
Gently  and  humanly ; 
Not  of  the  stains  of  her— 
All  that  remains  of  her 
Now  is  pure  womanly. 

Make  no  deep  scrutiny 
Into  her  mutiny 
Rash  and  un dutiful : 
Past  all  dishonour, 
Death  has  left  on  her 
Only  the  beautiful. 

Still,  for  all  slips  of  hers, 
One  of  Eve's  family — 
Wipe  those  poor  lips  of  hers 
Oozing  so  clammily. 
s  2 


260  BOOK 


Loop  up  her  tresses 
Escaped  from  the  comb, 
Her  fair  auburn  tresses  ; 
Whilst  wonderment  guesses 
Where  was  her  home  ? 

Who  was  her  father  ? 
Who  was  her  mother  ? 
Had  she  a  sister  ? 
Had  she  a  brother  ? 
Or  was  there  a  dearer  one 
Still,  and  a  nearer  one 
Yet,  than  all  other  ? 

Alas  !  for  the  rarity 
Of  Christian  charity 
Under  the  sun  ! 
Oh  !  it  was  pitiful ! 
Near  a  whole  city  full, 
Home  she  had  none. 

Sisterly,  brotherly, 
Fatherly,  motherly 
Feelings  had  changed  : 
Love,  by  harsh  evidence, 
Thrown  from  its  eminence  ; 
Even  God's  providence 
Seeming  estranged. 

Where  the  lamps  quiver 

So  far  in  the  river, 

With  many  a  light 

From  window  and  casement, 

From  garret  to  basement, 

She  stood  with  amazement, 

Houseless  by  night. 

The  bleak  wind  of  March 
Made  her  tremble  and  shiver 
But  not  the  dark  arch, 
Or  the  black  flowing  river : 
Mad  from  life's  history, 


FOURTH  261 

Glad  to  death's  mystery 
Swift  to  be  hurl'd — 
Any  where,  any  where 
Out  of  the  world  ! 
In  she  plunged  boldly, 
No  matter  how  coldly 
The  rough  river  ran, — 
Over  the  brink  of  it, 
Picture  it — think  of  it, 
Dissolute  Man  ! 
Lave  in  it,  drink  of  it, 
Then,  if  you  can  ! 
Take  her  up  tenderly, 
Lift  her  with  care  ; 
Fashion'd  so  slenderly, 
Young,  and  so  fair  ! 
Ere  her  limbs  frigidly 
Stiffen  too  rigidly, 
Decently,  kindly, 
Smooth  and  compose  them? 
And  her  eyes,  close  them, 
Staring  so  blindly  ! 
Dreadfully  staring 
Thro'  muddy  impurity, 
As  when  with  the  daring 
Last  look  of  despairing 
Fix'd  on  futurity. 
Perishing  gloomily, 
Spurr'd  by  contumely, 
Cold  inhumanity, 
Burning  insanity, 
Into  her  rest. 

— Cross  her  hands  humbly 
As  if  praying  dumbly, 
Over  her  breast ! 
Owning  her  weakness, 
Her  evil  behaviour, 
And  leaving,  with  meekness, 
Her  sins  to  her  Saviour. 
T.  Hood 


262  BOOK 

CCLXXV 

ELEGY 

Oh  snatchM  away  in  beauty's  bloom  ! 
On  thee  shall  press  no  ponderous  tomb ; 
But  on  thy  turf  shall  roses  rear 
Their  leaves,  the  earliest  of  the  year, 

And  the  wild  cypress  wave  in  tender  gloom  : 
And  oft  by  yon  blue  gushing  stream 
Shall  Sorrow  lean  her  drooping  head, 
And  feed  deep  thought  with  many  a  dream, 
And  lingering  pause  and  lightly  tread  ; 

Fond  wretch  !  as  if  her  step  disturb'd  the  dead  ! 
Away  !  we  know  that  tears  are  vain, 
That  Death  nor  heeds  nor  hears  distre.^s  : 
Will  this  unteach  us  to  complain  ? 
Or  make  one  .mourner  weep  the  less  ? 
And  thou,  who  tell'st  me  to  forget, 

Thy  looks  are  wan,  thine  eyes  are  wet. 

Lord  Byron 


HESTER 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try 

With  vain  endeavour. 
A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed 

And  her  together. 
A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate 

That  flush'd  her  spirit  : 
I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call :  if  'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied 

She  did  inherit- 


FOURTH  263 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool  ; 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 

Nature  had  blest  her. 
A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind  ; 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 

Ye  could  not  Hester. 

My  sprightly  neighbour  !  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore 

Some  summer  morning — " 
When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 

A  sweet  fore- warning  ? 

C.  Lamb 


CCLXXVII 

TO  MARY 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died, 

I  might  not  weep  for  thee  ; 
But  I  forgot,  when  by  thy  side, 

That  thou  couldst  mortal  be  : 
It  never  through  my  mind  had  past 

The  time  would  e'er  be  o'er, 
And  I  on  thee  should  look  my  last, 

And  thou  shouldst  smile  no  more ! 

And  still  upon  that  face  I  look, 

And  think  'twill  smile  again  ; 
And  still  the  thought  I  will  not  brook 

That  I  must  look  in  vain  ! 
But  when  I  speak — thou  dost  not  say 

What  thou  ne'er  left'st  unsaid ; 
And  now  I  feel,  as  well  I  may, 

Sweet  Mary  !  thou  art  dead  ! 


264  BOOK 

If  thou  wouldst  stay,  e'en  as  thou  art, 

All  cold  and  all  serene — 
I  still  might  press  thy  silent  heart, 

And  where  thy  smiles  have  been. 
While  e'en  thy  chill,  bleak  corse  I  have, 

Thou  seemest  still  mine  own  ; 
But  there  I  lay  thee  in  thy  grave — 

And  I  am  now  alone  ! 
I  do  not  think,  where'er  thou  art, 

Thou  hast  forgotten  me  ; 
And  I,  perhaps,  may  soothe  this  heart, 

In  thinking  too  of  thee  : 
Yet  there  was  round  thee  such  a  dawn 

Of  light  ne'er  seen  before, 
As  fancy  never  could  have  drawn, 

And  never  can  restore  ! 

C.  Wolfe 

CCLXXVIII 

CORONACH 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font  reappearing 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 
The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 
Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber  ! 


FOURTH  265 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone  ;  and  for  ever  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCLXXIX 
THE  DEATH  BED 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night, 

Her  breathing  soft  and  low. 
As  in  her  breast  the  wave  of  life 

Kept  heaving  to  and  fro. 

So  silently  we  seem'd  to  speak, 

So  slowly  moved  about, 
As  we  had  lent  her  half  our  powers 

To  eke  her  living  out. 

Our  very  hopes  belied  our  fears, 

Our  fears  our  hopes  belied — 
We  thought  her  dying  when  she  slept, 

And  sleeping  when  she  died. 

For  when  the  morn  came  dim  and  sad 
And  chill  with  early  showers, 

Her  quiet  eyelids  closed — she  had 
Another  morn  than  ours. 

T.  Hood 

CCLXXX 

AGNES 

I  saw  her  in  childhood — 

A  bright,  gentle  thing, 
Like  the  dawn  of  the  morn, 

Or  the  dews  of  the  spring  : 
The  daisies  and  hare-bells 

Her  playmates  all  day  ; 
Herself  as  light-hearted 

And  artless  as  they. 


266  BOOK 

I  saw  her  again — 

A  fair  girl  of  eighteen, 
Fresh  glittering  with  graces 

Of  mind  and  of  mien. 
Her  speech  was  all  music  ; 

Like  moonlight  she  shone  ; 
The  envy  of  many, 

The  glory  of  one. 

Years,  years  fleeted  over — 

I  stood  at  her  foot : 
The  bud  had  grown  blossom, 

The  blossom  was  fruit. 
A  dignified  mother, 

Her  infant  she  bore  ; 
And  look'd,  I  thought,  fairer 

Than  ever  before. 

I  saw  her  once  more — 

'Twas  the  day  that  she  died  ; 
Heaven's  light  was  around  her, 

And  God  at  her  side  ; 
No  wants  to  distress  her, 

No  fears  to  appal — 
O  then,  I  felt,  then 

She  was  fairest  of  all  ! 

H.  F.  Lyte 


CCLXXXI 
ROSABELLE 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

'  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew  ! 

And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay  ! 
Rest  thee  in  Castle  Ravensheuch, 

Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 


FOURTH  267 

*  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white  ; 

To  inch  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly  ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  Water- Sprite, 
Whose  screams  forebode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

*  Last  night  the  gifted  Seer  did  view 

A  wet  shroud  swathed  round  ladye  gay  ; 
Then  stay  thee,  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch  ; 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ? ' 

*  'Tis  not  because  Lord  Lindesay's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 
Sits  lonely  in  her  castle-hall. 

*  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 

And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  rides  well, 
But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide 
If 'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle.' 

— O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 
A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam  ; 

Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire's  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse- wood  glen  ; 

'  Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  that  chapel  proud 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie, 

Each  Baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheathed  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire  within,  around, 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale  ; 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage-bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high, 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  Saint  Clair. 


268  BOOK 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold- 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle  ; 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle. 

And  each  Saint  Clair  was  buried  there, 
With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell  ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCLXXXII 

ON  AN  INFANT  D  YJNG  AS  SOON  AS  BORN 

I  saw  wherein  the  shroud  did  lurk 

A  curious  frame  of  Nature's  work  ; 

A  flow'ret  crushed  in  the  bud, 

A  nameless  piece  of  Babyhood, 

Was  in  her  cradle-coffin  lying  ; 

Extinct,  with  scarce  the  sense  of  dying  : 

So  soon  to  exchange  the  imprisoning  womb 

For  darker  closets  of  the  tomb  ! 

She  did  but  ope  an  eye,  and  put 

A  clear  beam  forth,  then  straight  up  shut 

For  the  long  dark  :  ne'er  more  to  see 

Through  glasses  of  mortality. 

Riddle  of  destiny,  who  can  show 

What  thy  short  visit  meant,  or  know 

What  thy  errand  here  below  ? 

Shall  we  say,  that  Nature  blind 

Check'd  her  hand,  and  changed  her  mind 

Just  when  she  had  exactly  wrought 

A  finish'd  pattern  without  fault  ? 

Could  she  flag,  or  could  she  tire, 

Or  lack'd  she  the  Promethean  fire 

(With  her  nine  moons'  long  workings  sicken'd) 

That  should  thy  little  limbs  have  quicken'd  ? 

Limbs  so  firm,  they  seem'd  to  assure 

Life  of  health,  and  clays  mature  : 

Woman's  self  in  miniature  ! 


FOURTH  269 

Limbs  so  fair,  they  might  supply 

(Themselves  now  but  cold  imagery) 

The  sculptor  to  make  Beauty  by. 

Or  did  the  stern-eyed  Fate  descry 

That  babe  or  mother,  one  must  die  ; 

So  in  mercy  left  the  stock 

And  cut  the  branch  ;  to  save  the  shock 

Of  young  years  widow'd,  and  the  pain 

When  Single  State  comes  back  again 

To  the  lone  man  who,  reft  of  wife, 

Thenceforward  drags  a  maimed  life  ? 

The  economy  of  Heaven  is  dark, 

And  wisest  clerks  have  miss'd  the  mark 

Why  human  buds,  like  this,  should  fall, 

More  brief  than  fly  ephemeral 

That  has  his  day ;  while  shrivell'd  crones 

Stiffen  with  age  to  stocks  and  stones  ; 

And  crabbed  use  the  conscience  sears 

In  sinners  of  an  hundred  years. 

— Mother's  prattle,  mother's  kiss, 

Baby  fond,  thou  ne'er  wilt  miss  : 

Rites,  which  custom  does  impose, 

Silver  bells,  and  baby  clothes  ; 

Coral  redder  than  those  lips 

Which  pale  death  did  late  eclipse  ; 

Music  framed  for  infants'  glee, 

Whistle  never  tuned  for  thee  ; 

Though  thou  want'st  not,  thou  shalt  have  them, 

Loving  hearts  were  they  which  gave  them. 

Let  not  one  be  missing  ;  nurse, 

See  them  laid  upon  the  hearse 

Of  infant  slain  by  doom  perverse. 

Why  should  kings  and  nobles  have 

Pictured  trophies  to  their  grave, 

And  we,  churls,  to  thee  deny 

Thy  pretty  toys  with  thee  to  lie — 

A  more  harmless  vanity  ? 

C.  Lamb 


270  BOOK 

CCLXXXIIl 

IN  MEMORIAM 

A  child's  a  plaything  for  an  hour  ; 

Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space, — 

Then  tire,  and  lay  it  by. 
But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 

All  seasons  could  control ; 
That  would  have  mock'd  the  sense  of  pain 

Out  of  a  grieved  soul. 
Thou  straggler  into  loving  arms, 

Young  climber  up  of  knees, 
When  I  forget  thy  thousand  ways 

Then  life  and  all  shall  cease  ! 

M.   Lamb 

CCLXXXIV 

THE  AFFLICTION  OF  MARGARET 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son, 
Where  art  thou,  worse  to  me  than  dead  ? 
Oh  find  me,  prosperous  or  undone  ! 
Or  if  the  grave  be  now  thy  bed, 
Why  am  I  ignorant  of  the  same 
That  I  may  rest ;  and  neither  blame 
Nor  sorrow  may  attend  thy  name  ? 
Seven  years,  alas  !  to  have  received 
No  tidings  of  an  only  child — 
To  have  despair'd,  have  hoped,  believed, 
And  been  for  ever  more  beguiled, — 
Sometimes  with  thoughts  of  very  bliss  ! 
I  catch  at  them,  and  then  I  miss ; 
Was  ever  darkness  like  to  this  ? 
He  was  among  the  prime  in  worth, 
An  object  beauteous  to  behold  ; 
Well  born,  well  bred  ;  I  sent  him  forth 
Ingenuous,  innocent,  and  bold  : 
If  things  ensued  that  wanted  grace 
As  hath  been  said,  they  were  not  base  ; 
And  never  blush  was  on  my  face. 


FOURTH  271 

Ah  !  little  doth  the  young-one  dream 
When  full  of  play  and  childish  cares, 
What  power  is  in  his  wildest  scream 
Heard  by  his  mother  unawares  ! 
He  knows  it  not,  he  cannot  guess  ; 
Years  to  a  mother  bring  distress  ; 
But  do  not  make  her  love  the  less. 

Neglect  me  !  no,  I  suffer'd  long 
From  that  ill  thought ;  and  being  blind 
Said  '  Pride  shall  help  me  in  my  wrong : 
Kind  mother  have  I  been,  as  kind 
As  ever  breathed  : '  and  that  is  true  ; 
I've  wet  my  path  with  tears  like  dew, 
Weeping  for  him  when  no  one  knew. 

My  Son,  if  thou  be  humbled,  poor, 
Hopeless  of  honour  and  of  gain, 
Oh  !  do  not  dread  thy  mother's  door  ; 
Think  not  of  me  with  grief  and  pain  : 
I  now  can  see  with  better  eyes  ; 
And  worldly  grandeur  I  despise 
And  fortune  with  her  gifts  and  lies. 

Alas  !  the  fowls  of  heaven  have  wings, 
And  blasts  of  heaven  will  aid  their  flight ; 
They  mount — how  short  a  voyage  brings 
The  wanderers  back  to  their  delight  ! 
Chains  tie  us  down  by  land  and  sea  ; 
And  wishes,  vain  as  mine,  may  be 
All  that  is  left  to  comfort  thee. 

Perhaps  some  dungeon  hears  thee  groan 
Maim'd,  mangled  by  inhuman  men  ; 
Or  thou  upon  a  desert  thrown 
Inheritest  the  lion's  den  ; 
Or  hast  been  summon'd  to  the  deep 
Thou,  thou,  and  all  thy  mates  to  keep 
An  incommunicable  sleep. 

I  look  for  ghosts  :  but  none  will  force 
Their  way  to  me  ;  'tis  falsely  said 
That  there  was  ever  intercourse 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 


272  BOOK 

For  surely  then  I  should  have  sight 
Of  him  I  wait  for  day  and  night 
With  love  and  longings  infinite. 

My  apprehensions  come  in  crowds ; 
I  dread  the  rustling  of  the  grass  ; 
The  very  shadows  of  the  clouds 
Have  power  to  shake  me  as  they  pass : 
I  question  things,  and  do  not  find 
One  that  will  answer  to  my  mind  ; 
And  all  the  world  appears  unkind. 

Beyond  participation  lie 
My  troubles,  and  beyond  relief : 
If  any  chance  to  heave  a  sigh 
They  pity  me,  and  not  my  grief. 
Then  come  to  me,  my  Son,  or  send 
Some  tidings  that  my  woes  may  end  ! 
I  have  no  other  earthly  friend. 

W.    Wordsworth 


CCLXXXV 

HUNTING  SONG 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day  ; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 

With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear  ; 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling. 

Merrily  merrily  mingle  they, 

*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming  ; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay 

*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 


FOURTH  273 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away  ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size  ; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd  ; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay  ; 
'  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. ' 
Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 
Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we  ; 
Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  baulk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk  ; 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott 


CCLXXXVI 
TO  THE  SKYLARK 

Ethereal  minstrel  !  pilgrim  of  the  sky  ! 
Dost  thou  despise  the  earth  where  cares  abound  ? 
Or  while  the  wings  aspire,  are  heart  and  eye 
Both  with  thy  nest  upon  the  dewy  ground  ? 
Thy  nest  which  thou  canst  drop  into  at  will, 
Those  quivering  wings  composed,  that  music  still ! 
To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond 
Mount,  daring  warbler  ! — that  love-prompted  strain 
— 'Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond- 
Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  : 
Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 
All  independent  of  the  leafy  Spring. 
Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood  ; 
A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine, 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 
Of  harmony,  with  instinct  more  divine  ; 
Type  of  the  wise,  who  soar,  but  never  roam — 
True  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  Home. 
W.    Wordswoi  th 


274  BOOK 

CCLXXXVII 

TO  A  SKYLARK 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 
Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire, 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 

Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 
The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight  ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 

Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight : 
Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 
All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  oven 

flow'd. 
What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
/Vs  from  thy  presence  showe'rs  a  rain  of  melody  ; — 


FOURTH  275 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not  : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view : 

Like  a  rose  embower'd 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 

That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 
1   2 


276  BOOK 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 

What   love   of  thine   own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of 
pain  ? 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be  : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 

Our   sweetest    songs   are   those    that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  279 

CCLXXXVIII 

THE  GREEN  LINNET 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boughs  that  shed 

Their  snow-white  blossoms  on  my  head, 

With  brightest  sunshine  round  me  spread 

Of  Spring' s  unclouded  weather, 

In  this  sequester'd  nook  how  sweet 

To  sit  upon  my  orchard-seat  ! 

And  flowers  and  birds  once  more  to  greet, 

My  last  year's  friends  together. 

One  have  I  mark'd,  the  happiest  guest 

In  all  this  covert  of  the  blest : 

Hail  to  Thee,  far  above  the  rest 

In  joy  of  voice  and  pinion  ! 

Thou,  Linnet  !  in  thy  green  array 

Presiding  Spirit  here  to-day 

Dost  lead  the  revels  of  the  May  ; 

And  this  is  thy  dominion. 

While  birds,  and  butterflies,  and  flowers, 
Make  all  one  band  of  paramours, 
Thou,  ranging  up  and  down  the  bovvers, 
Art  sole  in  thy  employment  ; 
A  Life,  a  Presence  like  the  air, 
Scattering  thy  gladness  without  care, 
Too  blest  with  any  one  to  pair  ; 
Thyself  thy  own  enjoyment. 

Amid  yon  tuft  of  hazel  trees 
That  twinkle  to  the  gusty  breeze, 
Behold  him  perch'd  in  ecstasies 
Yet  seeming  still  to  hover  ; 
There  !  where  the  flutter  of  his  wings 
Upon  his  back  and  body  flings 
Shadows  and  sunny  glimmerings, 
That  cover  him  all  over. 

My  dazzled  sight  he  oft  deceives— 
A  brother  of  the  dancing  leaves  ; 
Then  flits,  and  from  the  cottage-eaves 
Pours  forth  his  song  in  gushes  j 


278  BOOK 

As  if  by  that  exulting  strain 
He  mock'd  and  treated  with  disdain 
The  voiceless  Form  he  chose  to  feign, 
While  fluttering  in  the  bushes. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCLXXXIX 

TO  THE  CUCKOO 

0  blithe  new-comer  !  I  have  heard, 

1  hear  thee  and  rejoice  : 

0  Cuckoo !  shall  I  call  thee  Bird, 
Or  but  a  wandering  Voice  ? 

While  I  am  lying  on  the  grass 
Thy  twofold  shout  I  hear  ; 
From  hill  to  hill  it  seems  to  pass, 
At  once  far  off  and  near. 

Though  babbling  only  to  the  vale 
Of  sunshine  and  of  flowers, 
Thou  bringest  unto  me  a  tale 
Of  visionary  hours. 

Thrice  welcome,  darling  of  the  Spring  ! 

Even  yet  thou  art  to  me 

No  bird,  but  an  invisible  thing, 

A  voice,  a  mystery  ; 

The  same  whom  in  my  school-boy  days 

1  listen'd  to  ;  that  Cry 

Which  made  me  look  a  thousand  ways 
In  bush,  and  tree,  and  sky. 

To  seek  thee  did  I  often  rove 
Through  woods  and  on  the  green  ; 
And  thou  wert  still  a  hope,  a  love  ; 
Still  long'd  for,  never  seen  ! 

And  I  can  listen  to  thee  yet ; 
Can  lie  upon  the  plain 
And  listen,  till  I  do  beget 
That  golden  time  again. 


FOURTH  279 

O  blessed  Bird  !  the  earth  we  pace 
Again  appears  to  be 
An  unsubstantial,  faery  place, 
That  is  fit  home  for  Thee  ! 

W.  Wordsworth 


ccxc 
ODE  TO  A  NIGHTINGALE 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-wards  had  sunk  : 
JTis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 
But  being  too  happy  in  thine  happiness, — 
That  thou,  light-winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 

In  some  melodious  plot 
Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 

O,  for  a  draught  of  vintage  !  that  hath  been 

Cool'd  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Proven9al  song,  and  sunburnt  mirth  ! 
O  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 

And  purple-stained  mouth  ; 
That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 

And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim  : 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan  ; 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few,  sad,  last  gray  hairs, 
.Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  spectre-thin,  and  dies 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorjow 

And  leaden-eyed  despairs  ; 
Where  Beauty  cannot  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  Love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 


280  BOOK 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  Poesy, 

Though  the  dull  brain  perplexes  and  retards  : 
Already  with  thee  !  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  Queen- Moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  Fays  ; 

But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through   verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy 
ways. 

I  cannot  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 
White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine  ; 
Fast  fading  violets  cover'd  up  in  leaves  ; 

And  mid-May's  eldest  child, 
The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 

The  murmurous  haunt  of  flies  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen  ;  and  for  many  a  time 

I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  Death, 
Call'd  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air  my  quiet  breath  ; 
Now  more  than  ever  seems  it  rich  to  die, 
To  cease  upon  the  midnight  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad 

In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain — 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  Bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down  ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through   the  sad    heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for 
home, 


FOURTH  2 

She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  ; 

The  same  that  oft-times  hath 
Charm'd  magic  casements,  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  faery  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn  !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  cannot  cheat  so  well 
As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu  !  adieu  !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 
Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill-side  ;  and  now 'tis  buried  deep 

In  the  next  valley-glades  : 
Was  it  a  vision,  or  a  waking  dream  ? 

Fled  is  that  music  : — Do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

/.  Keats 


ccxci 

UPON  WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE, 
SEPT.  3,  1802 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  : 
Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  City  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 

The  beauty  of  the  morning  :  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky, — 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 

Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 

In  his  firsi  splendour  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 

Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 

The  river  glideth  at  its  own  sweet  will : 
Dear  God  !   the  very  houses  seem  asleep; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still ! 
W. 


282  BOOK 


CCXCII 

• 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent, 
'Tis  very  sweet  to  look  into  the  fair 
And  open  face  of  heaven, — to  breathe  a  prayer 
Full  in  the  smile  of  the  blue  firmament. 

Who  is  more  happy,  when,  with  heart's  content, 
Fatigued  he  sinks  into  some  pleasant  lair 
Of  wavy  grass,  and  reads  a  debonair 
And  gentle  tale  of  love  and  languishment  ? 

Returning  home  at  evening,  with  an  ear 
Catching  the  notes  of  Philomel, — an  eye 
Watching  the  sailing  cloudlet's  bright  career, 

He  mourns  that  day  so  soon  has  glided  by  : 
E'en  like  the  passage  of  an  angel's  tear 
That  falls  through  the  clear  ether  silently. 
/.  Keats 


CCXCIIl 

OZYMANDIAS  OF  EGYPT 


I  met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shatter'd  visage  lies,  whose  frown 
And  wrinkled  lip  and  sneer  of  cold  command 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamp'd  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mock'd  them  and  the  heart  that  fed  ; 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear  : 
*  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair  ! ' 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  ?nd  bare, 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  283 


COMPOSED  AT  NEW  PATH  CASTLE,  THE 

PROPERTY  OF  LORD  QUEENSBERRY, 

1803 

Degenerate  Douglas  !  oh,  the  unworthy  lord  ! 
Whom  mere  despite  of  heart  could  so  far  please 
And  love  of  havoc,  (for  with  such  disease 
Fame  taxes  him,)  that  he  could  send  forth  word 

To  level  wii.li  the  dust  a  noble  horde, 

A  brotherhood  of  venerable  trees, 

Leaving  an  ancient  dome,  and  towers  like  these, 

Beggar'd  and  outraged  ! — Many  hearts  deplored 

The  fate  of  those  old  trees  ;  and  oft  with  pain 

The  traveller  at  this  day  will  stop  and  gaze 

On  wrongs,  which  Nature  scarcely  seems  to  heed : 

For  shelter'd  places,  bosoms,  nooks,  and  bays, 
And  the  pure  mountains,  and  the  gentle  Tweed, 
And  the  green  silent  pastures,  yet  remain. 

W.    Wordsworth 


ccxcv 
THE  BEECH  TREE'S  PETITION 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark  un  warm  ing  shade  below  ; 
Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue  ; 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn  ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
Th'  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive  ; 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me  : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 


284  BOOK 

Thrice  twenty  summers  I  have  seen 
The  sky  grow  bright,  the  forest  green  ; 
And  many  a  wintry  wind  have  stood 
In  bloomless,  fruitless  solitude, 
Since  childhood  in  my  pleasant  bower 
First  spent  its  sweet  and  sportive  hour  ; 
Since  youthful  lovers  in  my  shade 
Their  vows  of  truth  and  rapture  made, 
And  on  my  trunk's  surviving  frame 
Carved  many  a  long-forgotten  name. 
Oh  !  by  the  sighs  of  gentle  sound, 
First  breathed  upon  this  sacred  ground  ; 
By  all  that  Love  has  whisper*  J  here, 
Or  Beauty  heard  with  ravish'  1  ear  ; 
As  Love's  own  altar  honour  me  : 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 

T.   Campbell 


ccxcvi 
ADMONITION  TO  A  TRAVELLER 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye  ! 
— The  lovely  Cottage  in  the  guardian  nook 
Hath  stirr'd  thee  deeply ;  with  its  own  dear  brook, 
Its  own  small  pasture,  almost  its  own  sky  ! 

But  covet  not  the  abode  ;  forbear  to  sigh 
As  many  do,  repining  while  they  look  ; 
Intruders — who  would  tear  from  Nature's  book 
This  precious  leaf  with  harsh  impiety. 

— Think  what  the  home  must  be  if  it  were  thine, 
Even  thine,  though  few  thy  wants ! — Roof,  ?indow, 

door, 
The  very  flowers  are  sacred  to  the  Poor, 

The  roses  to  the  porch  which  they  entwine  : 
Yea,  all  that  now  enchants  thee,  from  the  day 
On-  which  it  should  be  touch'd,  would  melt  away  ! 

W.    Wordswortn 


FOURTH  285 


CCXCVII 

TO  THE  HIGHLAND    GIRL  OF 
INVERSNE  YDE 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 

Of  beauty  is  thy  earthly  dower  ! 

Twice  seven  consenting  years  have  shed 

Their  utmost  bounty  on  thy  head  : 

And  these  gray  rocks,  that  household  lawn, 

Those  trees— a  veil  just  half  withdrawn, 

This  fall  of  water  that  doth  make 

A  murmur  near  the  silent  lake, 

This  little  bay,  a  quiet  road 

That  holds  in  shelter  thy  abode  ; 

In  truth  together  ye  do  seem 

Like  something  fashion'd  in  a  dream  ; 

Such  forms  as  from  their  covert  peep 

When  earthly  cares  are  laid  asleep  ! 

But  O  fair  Creature  !   in  the  light 

Of  common  day,  so  heavenly  bright, 

I  bless  Thee,  Vision  as  thou  art, 

I  bless  thee  with  a  human  heart  : 

God  shield  thee  to  thy  latest  years  ! 

Thee  neither  know  I  nor  thy  peers  : 

And  yet  my  eyes  are  fill'd  with  tears. 

With  earnest  feeling  I  shall  pray 
For  thee  when  I  am  far  away  ; 
For  never  saw  I  mien  or  face 
In  which  more  plainly  I  could  trace 
Benignity  and  home-bred  sense 
Ripening  in  perfect  innocence. 
Here  scatter' d,  like  a  random  seed, 
Remote  from  men,  Thou  dost  not  need 
The  embarrass'd  look  of  shy  distress, 
And  maidenly  sjiamefacedness  : 
Thou  wear'st  upon  thy  forehead  clear 
The  freedom  of  a  Mountaineer  : 
A  face  with  gladness  overspread  ; 
Soft  smiles,  by  human  kindness  bred  5 


286  BOOK 

And  seemliness  complete,  that  sways 
Thy  courtesies,  about  thee  plays  ; 
With  no  restraint,  but  such  as  springs 
From  quick  and  eager  visitings 
Of  thoughts  that  lie  beyond  the  reach 
Of  thy  few  words  of  English  speech  : 
A  bondage  sweetly  brook'd,  a  strife 
That  gives  thy  gestures  grace  and  life  ! 
So  have  I,  not  unmoved  in  mind, 
Seen  birds  of  tempest-loving  kind — 
Thus  beating  up  against  the  wind. 

What  hand  but  would  a  garland  cull 
For  thee  who  art  so  beautiful  ? 

0  happy  pleasure  !  here  to  dwell 
Beside  thee  in  some  heathy  dell  ; 
Adopt  your  homely  ways,  and  dress, 
A  shepherd,  thou  a  shepherdess  ! 
But  I  could  frame  a  wish  for  thee 
More  like  a  grave  reality  : 

Thou  art  to  me  but  as  a  wave 

Of  the  wild  sea  :  and  I  would  have 

Some  claim  upon  thee,  if  I  could, 

Though  but  of  common  neighbourhood. 

What  joy  to  hear  thee,  and  to  see  ! 

Thy  elder  brother  I  would  be, 

Thy  father — anything  to  thee. 

Now  thanks  to  Heaven  !  that  of  its  grace 
Hath  led  me  to  this  lonely  place  : 
Joy  have  I  had  ;  and  going  hence 

1  bear  away  my  recompence. 

In  spots  like  these  it  is  we  prize 
Our  Memory,  feel  that  she  hath  eyes  : 
Then  why  should  I  be  loth  to  stir  ? 
I  feel  this  place  was  made  for  her  ; 
To  give  new  pleasure  like  the  past, 
Continued  long  as  life  shall  last. 
Nor  am  I  loth,  rhough  pleased  at  heart, 
Sweet  Highland  Girl !  from  thee  to  part ; 
For  I,  methinks,  till  I  grow  old 


FOURTH  287 

As  fair  before  me  shall  behold 
As  I  do  now,  the  cabin  small, 
The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall ; 
And  Thee,  the  Spirit  of  them  all ! 

W.   Wordsworth 


CCXCVIII 

THE  REAPER 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  Lass  ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself ; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass  ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain  ; 

0  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 
More  welcome  notes  to  weary  bands 
Of  travellers  in  some  shady  haunt, 
Among  Arabian  sands  : 
A  voice  so  thrilling  ne'er  was  heard 
In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas 
Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago  : 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ! 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending  ;— 
I  lislen'd,  motionless  and  still ; 


283  BDOK 

And,  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

W.  Wordswonh 


ccxcix 
THE  REVERIE  OF  POOR  SUSAN 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears, 
Hangs  a  Thrush  that  sings  loud,  it  has  sung  for  thre^ 

years  : 

Poor  Susan  has  pass'd  by  the  spot,  and  has  heard 
In  the  silence  of  morning  the  song  of  the  bird. 

'Tis  a  note  of  enchantment  ;  what  ails  her  ?  She  sees 
A  mountain  ascending,  a  vision  of  trees  ; 
Bright  volumes  of  vapour  through  Lothbury  glide, 
And  a  river  flows  on  through  the  vale  of  Cheapside. 

Green  pastures  she  views  in  the  midst  nf  the  dale 
Down  which  she  so  often  has  tripp'd  with  her  pail ; 
And  a  single  small  cottage,  a  nest  like  a  dove's, 
The  one  only  dwelling  on  earth  that  she  loves. 

She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  ; 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colours  have  all  pass'd  away  from  her  eyes  ! 

W.    Wordsworth 

ccc 
TO  A  LADY,  WITH  A  GUITAR 

Ariel  to  Miranda  : — Take 

This  slave  of  music,  for  the  sake 

Of  him,  who  is  the  slave  of  thee  ; 

And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 

In  which  thou  canst,  and  only  thou, 

Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 

Till  joy  denies  itself  again 

And,  too  intense,  is  turn'd  to  pain. 


FOURTH  289 

For  by  permission  and  command 

Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 

Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 

Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken  ; 

Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who 

From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 

Your  happiness,  for  thus  alone 

Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 

From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 

As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 

To  the  throne  of  Naples  he 

Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 

Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 

Like  a  living  meteor. 

When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon 

In  her  interlunar  swoon 

Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 

Than  deserted  Ariel  :— 

When  you  live  again  on  earth, 

Like  an  unseen  Star  of  birth 

Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 

Of  life  from  your  nativity  : — 

Many  changes  have  been  run 

Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 

Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 

Has  track'd  your  steps  and  served  your  will, 

Now  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 

This  is  all  remember' d  not ; 

And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  Sprite  is 

Imprison'd  for  some  fault  of  his 

In  a  body  like  a  grave — 

From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 

For  his  service  and  his  sorrow 

A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 

The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought 
To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 
Fell'd  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 
The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 
Rock'd  in  that  repose  divine 
On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 
And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 
U 


290  BOOK 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast, 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love  :  And  so  this  tree, — 

Oh  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again  : 

From  which,  beneath  heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  this  loved  Guitar  ; 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skilfully 

In  language  gentle  as  thine  own  ; 

Whispering  in  enamour'd  tone 

Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 

And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells : 

— For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 

Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 

Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 

And  the  many-voiced  fountains  ; 

The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 

The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 

The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 

The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 

And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 

And  airs  of  evening  ;  and  it  knew 

That  seldom-heard  mysterious  sound 

Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 

As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 

Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way  : 

— All  this  it  knows,  but  will  not  tell 

To  those  who  cannot  question  well 

The  Spirit  that  inhabits  it ; 

It  talks  according  to  the  wit 

Of  its  companions  ;  and  no  more 

Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before 

By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 

These  secrets  of  an  elder  day. 

But,  sweetly  as  it  answers  will 

Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 

It  keeps  its  highest  holiest  tone 

For  our  beloved  Friend  alone. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  291 

ccci 
THE  DAFFODILS 

I  wander' d  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hili.'j 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as  the  stars  that  shine 

And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 

They  stretch'd  in  never-ending  line 

Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 

Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 

Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : — 

A  Poet  could  not  but  be  gay 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ! 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie 

In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 

They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye 

Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude  ; 

And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 

And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

W.  Wordsworth 

ccci  i 
TO  THE  DAISY 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see 

Of  things  that  in  the  great  world  be, 

Sweet  Daisy  !  oft  I  talk  to  thee 

For  thou  art  worthy, 
Thou  unassuming  Common-place 
Of  Nature,  with  that  homely  face, 
And  yet  with  something  of  a  grace 

Which  Love  makes  for  thee  ! 


292  BOOK 

Oft  on  the  dappled  turf  at  ease 

I  sit  and  play  with  similes, 

Loose  types  of  things  through  all  degrees, 

Thoughts  of  thy  raising  ; 
And  many  a  fond  and  idle  name 
I  give  to  thee,  for  praise  or  blame 
As  is  the  humour  of  the  game, 

While  I  am  gazing. 
A  nun  demure,  of  lowly  port ; 
Or  sprightly  maiden,  of  Love's  court, 
In  thy  simplicity  the  sport 

Of  all  temptations ; 
A  queen  in  crown  of  rubies  drest  ; 
A  starveling  in  a  scanty  vest ; 
Are  all,  as  seems  to  suit  thee  best, 

Thy  appellations. 
A  little  Cyclops,  with  one  eye 
Staring  to  threaten  and  defy, 
That  thought  comes  next— and  instantly 

The  freak  is  over, 

The  shape  will  vanish,  and  behold  ! 
A  silver  shield  with  boss  of  gold 
That  spreads  itself,  some  faery  bold 

In  fight  to  cover. 
I  see  thee  glittering  from  afar — 
And  then  thou  art  a  pretty  star, 
Not  quite  so  fair  as  many  are 

In  heaven  above  thee  ! 
Yet  like  a  star,  with  glittering  crest, 
Self-poised  in  air  thou  seem'st  to  rest  ;— 
May  peace  come  never  to  his  nest 

Who  shall  reprove  thee  ! 
Sweet  Flower  !  for  by  that  name  at  last 
When  all  my  reveries  are  past 
I  call  thee,  and  to  that  cleave  fast, 

Sweet  silent  Creature  ! 
That  breath'st  with  me  in  sun  and  air, 
Do  thou,  as  thou  art  wont,  repair 
My  heart  with  gladness,  and  a  share 

Of  thy  meek  nature  ! 

IV.    Wordsworth 


FOURTH  293 


CCCIII 

ODE  TO  AUTUMN 

Season  of  mists  and  mellow  fniitfulness, 

Close  bosom-friend  of  the  maturing  sun  ; 

Conspiring  with  him  how  to  load  and  bless 

With  fruit  the  vines  that  round  the  thatch-eaves  run  ; 

To  bend  .with  apples  the  moss'd  cottage-trees, 

And  fill  all  fruit  with  ripeness  to  the  core ; 

To  swell  the  gourd,  and  plump  the  hazel  shells 

With  a  sweet  kernel ;  to  set  budding  more, 

And  still  more,  later  flowers  for  the  bees, 

Until  they  think  warm  days  will  never  cease  ; 

For  Summer  has  o'erbrimm'd  their  clammy  cells. 

Who  hath  not  seen  thee  oft  amid  thy  store  ? 
Sometimes  whoever  seeks  abroad  may  find 
Thee  sitting  careless  on  a  granary  floor, 
Thy  hair  soft-lifted  by  the  winnowing  wind  ; 
Or  on  a  half-reap'd  furrow  sound  asleep, 
Drowsed  with  the  fume  of  poppies,  while  thy  hook 
Spares  the  next  swath  and  all  its  twined  flowers  : 
And  sometimes  like  a  gleaner  thou  dost  keep 
Steady  thy  laden  head  across  a  brook  ; 
Or  by  a  cyder-press,  with  patient  look, 
Thou  watchest  the  last  oozings,  hours  by  hours. ' 

Where  are  the  songs  of  Spring  ?  Ay,  where  are  they  ? 

Think  not  of  them,  thou  hast  thy  music  too,— 

While  barred  clouds  bloom  the  soft-dying  day 

And  touch  the  stubble-plains  with  rosy  hue  ; 

Then  in  a  wailful  choir  the  small  gnats  mourn 

Among  the  river-sallows,  borne  aloft 

Or  sinking  as  the  light  wind  lives  or  dies  ; 

And  full-grown  lambs  loud  bleat  from  hilly  bourn ; 

Hedge-crickets  sing  ;  and  now  with  treble  soft 

The  red-breast  whistles  from  a  garden-croft  ; 

And  gathering  swallows  twitter  in  the  skies. 

/.  Keats 


294  BOOK 

ccciv 

ODE  TO  WINTER 
Germany^  December,  1800 

When  first  the  fiery- mantled  Sun 
His  heavenly  race  began  to  run, 
Round  the  earth  and  ocean  blue 
His  children  four  the  Seasons  flew. 

First,  in  green  apparel  dancing, 
The  young  Spring  smiled  with  angel-grace  ; 

Rosy  Summer  next  advancing, 
Rush'd  into  her  sire's  embrace — 
Her  bright-hair'd  sire,  who  bade  her  keep 

For  ever  nearest  to  his  smiles, 
On  Calpe's  olive-shaded  steep 

Or  India's  citron-cover'd  isles  : 
More  remote,  and  buxom-brown, 

The  Queen  of  vintage  bow'd  before  his  throne 
A  rich  pomegranate  gemm'd  her  crown, 

A  ripe  sheaf  bound  her  zone. 

But  howling  Winter  fled  afar 
To  hills  that  prop  the  polar  star  ; 
And  loves  on  deer-borne  car  to  ride 
With  barren  darkness  by  his  side, 
Round  the  shore  where  loud  Lofoden 

Whirls  to  death  the  roaring  whale, 
Round  the  hall  where  Runic  Odin 

Howls  his  war-song  to  the  gale  ; 
Save  when  adown  the  ravaged  globe 

He  travels  on  his  native  storm, 
Deflowering  Nature's  grassy  robe 

And  trampling  on  her  faded  form  : — 
Till  light's  returning  Lord  assume 

The  shaft  that  drives  him  to  his  polar  field, 
Of  power  to  pierce  his  raven  plume 

And  crystal-cover'd  shield. 

Oh,  sire  of  storms  !  whose  savage  ear 
The  Lapland  drum  delights  to  hear, 
When  Frenzy  with  her  blood -shot  ey» 
Implores  thy  dreadful  deity — 


FOURTH  295 

Archangel  !  Power  of  desolation  ! 

Fast  descending  as  thou  art, 
Say,  hath  mortal  invocation 

Spells  to  touch  thy  stony  heart  ? 
Then,  sullen  Winter  !  hear  my  prayer, 
And  gently  rule  the  ruin'd  year  ; 
Nor  chill  the  wanderer's  bosom  bare 
Nor  freeze  the  wretch's  falling  tear  : 
To  shuddering  Want's  unmantled  bed 

Thy  horror-breathing  agues  cease  to  lend, 
And  gently  on  the  orphan  head 

Of  Innocence  descend. 
But  chiefly  spare,  O  king  of  clouds  ! 
The  sailor  on  his  airy  shrouds, 
When  wrecks  and  beacons  strew  the  steep, 
And  spectres  walk  along  the  deep. 
Milder  yet  thy  snowy  breezes 

Pour  on  yonder  tented  shores, 
Where  the  Rhine's  broad  billow  freezes, 

Or  the  dark-brown  Danube  roars. 
Oh,  winds  of  Winter  !  list  ye  there 

To  many  a  deep  and  dying  groan  ? 
Or  start,  ye  demons  of  the  midnight  air, 

At  shrieks  and  thunders  louder  than  your  own  ? 
Alas  !  ev'n  your  unhallow'd  breath 

May  spare  the  victim  fallen  low  ; 
But  Man  will  ask  no  truce  to  death, — 

No  bounds  to  human  woe. 

T.   Campbeh 


YARROW  UN  VISITED 
1803 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen 
The  mazy  Forth  unravell'd, 
Had  trod  the  banks  of  Clyde  and  Tay 
And  with  the  Tweed  had  travell'd  ; 
And  when  we  came  to  Clovenford, 
Then  said  my  '  winsome  Marrow,' 
.'  Whate'er  betide,  we'll  turn  aside, 
And  see  the  Braes  of  Yarrow.' 


296  BOOK 

1  Let  Yarrow  folk,  frae  Selkirk  town, 
Who  have  been  buying,  selling, 
Go  back  to  Yarrow,  'tis  their  own, 
Each  maiden  to  her  dwelling  ! 
On  Yarrow's  banks  let  herons  feed, 
Hares  couch,  and  rabbits  burrow  ; 
But  we  will  downward  with  the  Tweed, 
Nor  turn  aside  to  Yarrow. 

'There's  Gala  Water,  Leader  Haughs, 
Both  lying  right  before  us  ; 
And  Dryburgh,  where  with  chiming  Tweed 
The  lintwhites  sing  in  chorus  ; 
There's  pleasant  Tiviot-dale,  a  land 
Made  blithe  with  plough  and  harrow  : 
Why  throw  away  a  needful  day 
To  go  in  search  of  Yarrow  ? 

*  What's  Yarrow  but  a  river  bare 

That  glides  the  dark  hills  under  ? 

There  are  a  thousand  such  elsewhere 

As  worthy  of  your  wonder.' 

— Strange  words  they  seem'd  of  slight  and  scorn 

My  True-love  sigh'd  for  sorrow, 

And  look'd  me  in  the  face,  to  think 

I  thus  could  speak  of  Yarrow  ! 

'O  green,'  said  I,  'are  Yarrow's  holms, 
And  sweet  is  Yarrow  flowing  ! 
Fair  hangs  the  apple  frae  the  rock, 
But  we  will  leave  it  growing. 
O'er  hilly  path  and  open  strath 
We'll  wander  Scotland  thorough  ; 
But,  though  so  near,  we  will  not  turn 
Into  the  dale  of  Yarrow. 

'  Let  beeves  and  home-bred  kine  partake 
The  sweets  of  Burn-mill  meadow  ; 
The  swan  on  still  Saint  Mary's  Lake 
Float  double,  swan  and  shadow  ! 
We  will  not  see  them  ;  will  not  go 
To-day,  nor  yet  to-morrow  ; 
Enough  if  in  our  hearts  we  know 
There's  such  a  place  as  Yarrow. 


FOURTH  29? 

*  Be  Yarrow  stream  unseen,  unknown  ! 
It  must,  or  we  shall  rue  it : 

We  have  a  vision  of  our  own, 

Ah  !  why  should  we  undo  it  ? 

The  treasured  dreams  of  times  long  past, 

We'll  keep  them,  winsome  Marrow  ! 

For  when  we're  there,  although  'tis  fair, 

'Twill  be  another  Yarrow  ! 

*  If  Care  with  freezing  years  should  come 
And  wandering  seem  but  folly, — 
Should  we  be  loth  to  stir  from  home, 
And  yet  be  melancholy  ; 

Should  life  be  dull,  and  spirits  low, 
'Twill  soothe  us  in  our  sorrow 
That  earth  has  something  yet  to  show, 
The  bonny  holms  of  Yarrow  ! ' 

W.    Wordsworth 


CCCVI 

YARROW  VISITED 
September^  1814 

And  is  this — Yarrow  ? — This  the  stream 

Of  which  my  fancy  cherish'd 

So  faithfully,  a  waking  dream, 

An  image  that  hath  perish'd  ? 

£>  that  some  minstrel's  harp  were  near 

To  utter  notes  of  gladness 

And  chase  this  silence  from  the  air, 

That  fills  my  heart  with  sadness  ! 

Yet  why  ? — a  silvery  current  flows 

With  uncontroll'd  meanderings ; 

Nor  have  these  eyes  by  greener  hills 

Been  soothed,  in  all  my  wanderings. 

And,  through  her  depths,  Saint  Mary's  Lake 

Is  visibly  delighted  ; 

For  not  a  feature  of  those  hills 

Is  in  the  mirror  slighted. 


298  BOOK 

A  blue  sky  bends  o'er  Yarrow  Vale, 

Save  where  that  pearly  whiteness 

Is  round  the  rising  sun  diffused, 

A  tender  hazy  brightness  ; 

Mild  dawn  of  promise  !  that  excludes 

All  profitless  dejection  ; 

Though  not  unwilling  here  to  admit 

A  pensive  recollection. 

Where  was  it  that  the  famous  Flower 

Of  Yarrow  Vale  lay  bleeding  ? 

His  bed  perchance  was  yon  smooth  mound 

On  which  the  herd  is  feeding  : 

And  haply  from  this  crystal  pool, 

Now  peaceful  as  the  morning, 

The  Water-wraith  ascended  thrice, 

And  gave  his  doleful  warning. 

Delicious  is  the  lay  that  sings 

The  haunts  of  happy  lovers, 

The  path  that  leads  them  to  the  grove, 

The  leafy  grove  that  covers  : 

And  pity  sanctifies  the  verse 

That  paints,  by  strength  of  sorrow, 

The  unconquerable  strength  of  love  ; 

Bear  witness,  rueful  Yarrow  ! 

But  thou  that  didst  appear  so  fair 

To  fond  imagination, 

Dost  rival  in  the  light  of  day 

Her  delicate  creation  : 

Meek  loveliness  is  round  thee  spread, 

A  softness  still  and  holy  : 

The  grace  of  forest  charms  decay'd, 

And  pastoral  melancholy. 

That  region  left,  the  vale  unfolds 

Rich  groves  of  lofty  stature, 

With  Yarrow  winding  through  the  pomp 

Of  cultivated  nature ; 

And  rising  from  those  lofty  groves 

Behold  a  ruin  hoary, 

The  shatter'd  front  of  Newark's  towers, 

Renown'd  in  Border  story. 


FOURTH  299 

Fair  seizes  for  childhood's  opening  bloom, 

For  sportive  youth  to  stray  in, 

For  manhood  to  enjoy  his  strength, 

And  age  to  wear  away  in  ! 

Yon  cottage  seems  a  bower  of  bliss, 

A  covert  for  protection 

Of  tender  thoughts  that  nestle  there — 

The  brood  of  chaste  affection. 

How  sweet  on  this  autumnal  day 

The  wild-wood  fruits  to  gather, 

And  on  my  True-love's  forehead  plant 

A  crest  of  blooming  heather  ! 

And  what  if  I  enwreathed  my  own  ? 

'Twere  no  offence  to  reason  ; 

The  sober  hills  thus  deck  their  brows 

To  meet  the  wintry  season. 

I  see — but  not  by  sight  alone, 

Loved  Yarrow,  have  I  won  thee  ; 

A  ray  of  Fancy  still  survives — 

Her  sunshine  plays  upon  thee  ! 

Thy  ever-youthful  waters  keep 

A  course  of  lively  pleasure  ; 

And  gladsome  notes  my  lips  can  breathe 

Accordant  to  the  measure. 

The  vapours  linger  round  the  heights, 
They  melt,  and  soon  must  vanish  ; 
One  hour  is  theirs,  nor  more  is  mine — 
Sad  thought  !  which  I  would  banish, 
But  that  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
Thy  genuine  image,  Yarrow  ! 
Will  dwell  with  me,  to  heighten  joy, 
And  cheer  my  mind  in  sorrow. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCVII 

'1HE  INVITATION 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away,— 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 


300  BOOK 

Which,  like  thee,  to  those  in  sorrow 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  morn 
To  hoar  February  born  ; 
Bending  from  heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kiss'd  the  forehead  of  the  earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strew'd  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music,  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
To  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green,  and  ivy  dun, 
Round  stems  that  never  kiss  the  sun  ; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be 
And  the  sandhills  of  the  sea  ; 
Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers  and  violets 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 


FOURTH  301 


When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dim  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  Sun. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCCVIII 

THE  RECOLLECTION 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 

All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou,       JJ. 

The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead  : 

Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise  ! 

Up — to  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, 

For  now  the  earth  has  changed  its  face, 

A  frown  is  on  the  heaven's  brow. 

We  wander'd  to  the  Pine1  Forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam  ; 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep, 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep 

The  smile  of  heaven  lay  ; 
It  seem'd  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies 
Which  scatter'd  from  above  the  sun 

A  light  of  Paradise  ! 

We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, — 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 


302  BOOK 

To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  : 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea. 
As  still  as  in  the  .silent  deep 

The  ocean -woods  may  be. 

How  calm  it  was  ! — The  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound, 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  with  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seem'd,  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, — 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life  ; 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ;  — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  fill'd  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 

We  paused  beside  tlie  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough  ; 
Each  seem'd  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulf'd  in  a  world  below  ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night 

And  purer  than  the  day — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark -green  wood 


FOURTH  303 

The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen 
Were  imaged  in  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green  : 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  Elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved,  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  exprest  ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
— Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCCIX 

BY  THE  SEA 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  ; 
The  holy  time  is  quiet  as  a  Nun 
Breathless  with  adoration  ;  the  broad  sun 
Is  sinking  down  in  its  tranquillity  ; 

The  gentleness  of  heaven  is  on  the  Sea  : 
Listen  !  the  mighty  Being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder — everlastingly. 

Dear  child  !  dear  girl  !  that  walkest  with  me  here, 
If  thou  appear  untouch'd  by  solemn  thought 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine  : 


304  BOOK 

Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year, 
And  worshipp'st  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not. 
W.    Wordsworth 


CCCX 

SONG  TO  THE  EVENING  STAR 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee, 
And  sett'st  the  weary  labourer  free  ! 
If  any  star  shed  peace,  'tis  Thou 

That  send'st  it  from  above, 
Appearing  when  Heaven's  breath  and  brow 

Are  sweet  as  hers  we  love. 

Come  to  the  luxuriant  skies, 
Whilst  the  landscape's  odours  rise, 
Whilst  far-off  lowing  herds  are  heard 

And  songs  when  toil  is  done, 
From  cottages  whose  smoke  unstirr'd 

Curls  yellow  in  the  sun. 

Star  of  love's  soft  interviews, 
Parted  lovers  on  thee  muse  ; 
Their  remembrancer  in  Heaven 

Of  thrilling  vows  thou  art, 
Too  delicious  to  be  riven 

By  absence  from  the  heart. 

T.   Campbell 

cccxi 
DATUR  HORA   QUIET! 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low, 

The  wild  birds  hush  their  song, 
The  hills  have  evening's  deepest  glow. 

Yet  Leonard  tarries  long. 
Now  all  whom  varied  toil  and  care 

From  home  and  love  divide, 
In  the  calm  sunset  may  repair 

Each  to  the  loved  one's  side. 


FOURTH  305 

The  noble  dame,  on  turret  high, 

Who  waits  her  gallant  knight, 
Looks  to  the  western  beam  to  spy 

The  flash  of  armour  bright. 
The  village  maid,  with  hand  on  brow 

The  level  ray  to  shade, 
Upon  the  footpath  watches  now 

For  Colin's  darkening  plaid. 

Now  to  their  mates  the  wild  swans  row, 

By  day  they  swam  apart, 
And  to  the  thicket  wanders  slow 

The  hind  beside  the  hart. 
The  woodlark  at  his  partner's  side 

Twitters  his  closing  song — 
All  meet  whom  day  and  care  divide, 

But  Leonard  tarries  long  ! 

Sir  W.  Scott 

CCCXII 

TO  THE  MOON 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven,  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth, — 
And  ever-changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley 

CCCXIII 

TO  SLEEP 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky ; 

I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  yet  do  lie 
Sleepless  ;  and  soon  the  small  birds'  melodies 
Must  hear,  first  utter'd  from  my  orchard  trees, 
And  the  first  cuckoo's  melancholy  cry. 
x 


306  BOOK 

Even  thus  last  night,  and  two  nights  more  I  lay, 
And  could  not  win  thee,  Sleep  !  by  any  stealth  : 
So  do  not  let  me  wear  to-night  away  : 
Without  Thee  what  is  all  the  morning's  wealth  ? 
Come,  blessed  barrier  between  day  and  day, 
Dear  mother  of  fresh  thoughts  and  joyous  health  . 

W.    Wordsworth 


CCCXIV 

THE  SOLDIER'S  DREAM 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd 

And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky ; 
And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpower'd, 

The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 
When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw 

By  the  wolf-scaring  faggot  that  guarded  the  slain, 
At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  Vision  I  saw  ; 

And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 
Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 

Far,  far,  I  had  roam'd  on  a  desolate  track  : 
'Twas  Autumn, — and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 

To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 
I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young  ; 
I  heard  my  own  mountain -goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers 
sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 
From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to 

part  ; 
My  little  ones  kiss'd  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 

And  my  wife  sobb'd  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 
'  Stay — stay   with   us  ! — rest  ! — thou    art   weary    and 

worn  ! ' — 

And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay  ; — 
But  sorrow  return'd  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

T.   Campbell 


FOURTH  307 

1  j> 

cccxv 

A  DREAM  OF  THE  UNKNOWN 

I  dream'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way 

Bare  Winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  Spring, 

A.nd  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 
Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  Thou  mightest  in  dream. 

rr-i  •     J         •      J    a  J        •     1     . 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

Daisies,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cow-bind  and  the  moonlight-colour'd  May, 

And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray  ; 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold, 

Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prank'dwith 
.white, 

And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 
And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 

Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 

And  bulrushes,  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 

As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 
I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 

X    2 


308  BOOK 

That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 
Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 

Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  Hours  - 
Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 

I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come 

That  I  might  there  present  it — O  !  to  Whom  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley 

CCCXVI 

KUBLA  KHAN 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  : 
And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 
Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  oh  !  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover  ! 
A  savage  place  !  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon-lover  ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seething 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing, 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced  : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail, 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail  : 
And  mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man, 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean  : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  J 


FOURTH  309 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves  ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 

A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw  : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 
To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair  ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice, 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


CCCXVII 

THE  INNER   VISION 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes 
To  pace  the  ground,  if  path  be  there  or  none, 
While  a  fair  region  round  the  traveller  lies 
Which  he  forbears  again  to  look  upon  ; 

Pleased  rather  with  some  soft  ideal  scene, 
The  work  of  Fancy,  or  some  happy  tone 
Of  meditation,  slipping  in  between 
The  beauty  coming  and  the  beauty  gone. 

— If  Thought  and  Love  desert  us,  from  that  day 
Let  us  break  off  all  commerce  with  the  Muse  : 
With  Thought  and  Love  companions  of  our  way — 


310  BOOK 

Whate'er  the  senses  take  or  may  refuse, — 
The  Mind's  internal  heaven  shall  shed  her  dews 
Of  inspiration  on  the  humblest  lay. 

IV.  Wordsworth 


THE  REALM  OF  FANCY 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam  ; 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 

Theri  let  winged  Fancy  wander 

Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 

Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 

She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 

O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 

Summer's  joys  are  spoilt  by  use, 

And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 

Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 

Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 

Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 

Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 

Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 

T-he  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 

Spirit  of  a  winter's  night  ; 

When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 

And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 

From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 

When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 

In  a  dark  conspiracy 

To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 

Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 

With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 

Fancy,  high-commission'd  : — send  her  ! 

She  has  vassals  to  attend  her  : 

She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 

Beauties  that  the  earth  hath  lost ; 

She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 

All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 

All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 


FOURTH  311 

From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 
All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 
With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 
She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 
And  thou  shalt  quaff  it :— thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear  ; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plumed  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid -May  ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shalt  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin  ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shalt  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest  ; 
Then  the  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee -hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 

Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Everything  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gazed  at  ?    Where's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new  ? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?     Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 


312  BOOK 

One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 

At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 

Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 

Let  then  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. 

— Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

/.  Keats 


CCCXIX 

WRITTEN  IN  EARLY  SPRING 

I  heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 
While  in  a  grove  I  sate  reclined, 
In  that  sweet  mood  when  pleasant  thoughts 
Bring  sad  thoughts  to  the  mind. 

To  her  fair  works  did  Nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran  ; 
And  much  it  grieved  my  heart  to  think 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man. 

Through  primrose  tufts,  in  that  sweet  bower, 
The  periwinkle  trail'd  its  wreaths ; 
And  'tis  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes. 

The  birds  around  me  hopp'd  and  play'd, 
Their  thoughts  I  cannot  measure, — 
But  the  least  motion  which  they  made 
It  seem'd  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 


FOURTH  313 

The  budding  twigs  spread  out  their  fan 
To  catch  the  breezy  air  ; 
And  I  must  think,  do  all  I  can, 
That  there  was  pleasure  there. 

If  this  belief  from  heaven  be  sent, 
If  such  be  Nature's  holy  plan, 
Have  I  not  reason  to  lament 
What  Man  has  made  of  Man  ? 

W.    Wordswonh 


cccxx 

RUTH:  OR  THE  INFLUENCES  OF 
NATURE 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 
Her  father  took  another  mate  ; 
And  Ruth,  not  seven  years  old, 
A  slighted  child,  at  her  own  will 
Went  wandering  over  dale  and  hill, 
In  thoughtless  freedom,  bold. 

And  she  had  made  a  pipe  of  straw, 
And  music  from  that  pipe  could  draw 
Like  sounds  of  winds  and  floods  ; 
Had  built  a  bower  upon  the  green, 
As  if  she  from  her  birth  had  been 
An  infant  of  the  woods. 

Beneath  her  father's  roof,  alone 

She  seem'd  to  live  ;  her  thoughts  her  own  ; 

Herself  her  own  delight : 

Pleased  with  herself,  nor  sad  nor  gay  ; 

And  passing  thus  the  live-long  day, 

She  grew  to  woman's  height. 

There  came  a  youth  from  Georgia's  shore — 

A  military  casque  he  wore 

With  splendid  feathers  drest ; 

He  brought  them  from  the  Cherokees ; 

The  feathers  nodded  in  the  breeze 

And  made  a  gallant  crest. 


314  BOOK 

From  Indian  blood  you  deem  him  sprung  : 
But  no  !  he  spake  the  English  tongue 
And  bore  a  soldier's  name  ; 
And,  when  America  was  free 
From  battle  and  from  jeopardy, 
He  'cross  the  ocean  came. 

With  hues  of  genius  on  his  cheek, 
In  finest  tones  the  youth  could  speak  : 
— While  he  was  yet  a  boy 
The  moon,  the  glory  of  the  sun, 
And  streams  that  murmur  as  they  run 
Had  been  his  dearest  joy. 

He  was  a  lovely  youth  !  I  guess 

The  panther  in  the  wilderness 

Was  not  so  fair  as  he  ; 

And  when  he  chose  to  sport  and  play, 

No  dolphin  ever  was  so  gay 

Upon  the  tropic  sea. 

Among  the  Indians  he  had  fought ; 
And  with  him  many  tales  he  brought 
Of  pleasure  and  of  fear  ; 
Such  tales  as,  told  to  any  maid 
By  such  a  youth,  in  the  green  shade, 
Were  perilous  to  hear. 

He  told  of  girls,  a  happy  rout  ! 

Who  quit  their  fold  with  dance  and  shout, 

Their  pleasant  Indian  town, 

To  gather  strawberries  all  day  long  ; 

Returning  with  a  choral  song 

When  daylight  is  gone  down. 

He  spake  of  plants  that  hourly  change 
Their  blossoms,  through  a  boundless  range 
Of  intermingling  hues  ; 
With  budding,  fading,  faded  flowers, 
They  stand  the  wonder  of  the  bowers 
From  morn  to  evening  dews. 

He  told  of  the  magnolia,  spread 
High  as  a  cloud,  high  over  head  / 
The  cypress  and  her  spire  ; 


FOURTH  315 

— Of  flowers  that  with  one  scarlet  gleam 
Cover  a  hundred  leagues,  and  seem 
To  set  the  hills  on  fire. 

The  youth  of  green  savannahs  spake. 
And  many  an  endless,  endless  lake 
With  all  its  fairy  crowds 
•  Of  islands,  that  together  lie 
As  quietly  as  spots  of  sky 
Among  the  evening  clouds. 

'  How  pleasant,'  then  he  said,   '  it  were 

A  fisher  or  a  hunter  there, 

In  sunshine  or  in  shade 

To  wander  with  an  easy  mind, 

And  build  a  household  fire,  and  find 

A  home  in  every  glade  ! 

*  What  days  and  what  bright  years  !     Ah  me ! 
Our  life  were  life  indeed,  with  thee 

So  pass'd  in  quiet  bliss  ; 
And  all  the  while,'  said  he,   *  to  know 
That  we  were  in  a  world  of  woe, 
On  such  an  earth  as  this  ! ' 

And  then  he  sometimes  interwove 
Fond  thoughts  about  a  father's  love, 

*  For  there,'  said  he,   '  are  spun 
Around  the  heart  such  tender  ties, 
That  our  own  children  to  our  eyes 
Are  dearer  than  the  sun. 

4  Sweet  Ruth  !  and  could  you  go  with  me 

My  helpmate  in  the  woods  to  be, 

Our  shed  at  night  to  rear  ; 

Or  run,  my  own  adopted  bride, 

A  sylvan  huntress  at  my  side, 

And  drive  the  flying  deer  ! 

*  Beloved  Ruth  !  '—No  more  he  said. 
The  wakeful  Ruth  at  midnight  shed 
A  solitary  tear : 

She  thought  again — and  did  agree 
With  him  to  sail  across  the  sea, 
And  drive  the  flying  deer. 


3i6  BOOK 

*  And  now,  as  fitting  is  and  right, 
We  in  the  church  our  faith  will  plight, 
A  husband  and  a  wife.' 
Even  so  they  did  ;  and  I  may  say 
That  to  sweet  Ruth  that  happy  day 
Was  more  than  human  life. 

Through  dream  and  vision  did  she  sink, 
Delighted  all  the  while  to  think 
That,  on  those  lonesome  floods 
And  green  savannahs,  she  should  share 
His  board  with  lawful  joy,  and  bear 
His  name  in  the  wild  woods. 

Bat,  as  you  have  before  been  told, 
This  Stripling,  sportive,  gay,  and  bold, 
And  with  his  dancing  crest 
So  beautiful,  through  savage  lands 
Had  roam'd  about,  with  vagrant  bands 
Of  Indians  in  the  West. 

The  wind,  the  tempest  roaring  high, 

The  tumult  of  a  tropic  sky 

Might  well  be  dangerous  food 

For  him,  a  youth  to  whom  was  given 

So  much  of  earth — so  much  of  heaven, 

And  such  impetuous  blood. 

Whatever  in  those  climes  he  found 

Irregular  in  sight  or  sound 

Did  to  his  mind  impart 

A  kindred  impulse,  seem'd  allied 

To  his  own  powers,  and  justified 

The  workings  of  his  heart. 

Nor  less,  to  feed  voluptuous  thought, 
The  beauteous  forms  of  Nature  wrought,  - 
Fair  trees  and  gorgeous  flowers  ; 
The  breezes  their  own  languor  lent ; 
The  stars  had  feelings,  which  they  sent 
Into  those  favour'd  bowers. 

Yet,  in  his  worst  pursuits,  I  ween 
That  sometimes  there  did  intervene 
Pure  hopes  of  high  intent  : 


FOURTH  317 

For  passions  link'd  to  forms  so  fair 
And  stately,  needs  must  have  their  share 
Of  noble  sentiment. 

But  ill  he  lived,  much  evil  saw, 
With  men  to  whom  no  better  law 
Nor  better  life  was  known  ; 
Deliberately  and  undeceived 
Those  wild  men's  vices  he  received, 
And  gave  them  back  his  own. 

His  genius  and  his  moral  frame 
Were  thus  impair'd,  and  he  became 
The  slave  of  low  desires  : 
A  man  who  without  self-control 
Would  seek  what  the  degraded  soul 
Unworthily  admires. 

And  yet  he  with  no  feign'd  delight 
Had  woo'd  the  maiden,  day  and  night 
Had  loved  her,  night  and  morn  : 
What  could  he  less  than  love  a  maid 
Whose  heart  with  so  much  nature  play'd — 
So  kind  and  so  forlorn  ? 

Sometimes  most  earnestly  he  said, 

'  O  Ruth  !  I  have  been  worse  than  dead  ; 

False  thoughts,  thoughts  bold  and  vain 

Encompass'd  me  on  every  side 

When  I,  in  confidence  and  pride, 

Had  cross'd  the  Atlantic  main. 

*  Before  me  shone  a  glorious  world 
Fresh  as  a  banner  bright,  unfurl'd 
To  music  suddenly : 
I  look'd  upon  those  hills  and  plains, 
And  seem'd  as  if  let  loose  from  chains 
To  live  at  liberty  ! 

1  No  more  of  this — for  now,  by  thee, 
Dear  Ruth  !  more  happily  set  free, 
With  nobler  zeal  I  burn  ; 
My  soul  from  darkness  is  released 
Like  the  whole  sky  when  to  the  east 
The  morning  doth  return.' 


3i8  BOOK 

Full  soon  that  better  mind  was  gone  ; 
No  hope,  no  wish  remain'd,  not  one, — 
They  stirr'd  him  now  no  more  ; 
New  objects  did  new  pleasure  give, 
And  once  again  he  wish'd  to  live 
As  lawless  as  before. 

Meanwhile,  as  thus  with  him  it  fared>     • 
They  for  the  voyage  were  prepared, 
And  went  to  the  sea-shore  : 
But,  when  they  thither  came,  the  youth 
Deserted  his  poor  bride,  and  Ruth 
Could  never  find  him  more. 

God  help  thee,  Ruth  ! — Such  pains  she  had 

That  she  in  half  a  year  was  mad 

And  in  a  prison  housed  ; 

And  there,  with  many  a  doleful  song 

Made  of  wild  words,  her  cup  of  wrong 

She  fearfully  caroused. 

Yet  sometimes  milder  hours  she  knew, 
Nor  wanted  sun,  nor  rain,  nor  dew, 
Nor  pastimes  of  the  May, 
— They  all  were  with  her  in  her  cell  ; 
And  a  clear  brook  with  cheerful  knell 
Did  o'er  the  pebbles  play. 

When  Ruth  three  seasons  thus  had  lain, 
There  came  a  respite  to  her  pain  ; 
She  from  her  prison  fled  ; 
But  of  the  Vagrant  none  took  thought ; 
And  where  it  liked  her  best  she  sought 
Her  shelter  and  her  bread. 

Among  the  fields  she  breathed  again  : 
The  master-current  of  her  brain 
Ran  permanent  and  free  ; 
And,  coming  to  the  banks  of  Tone, 
There  did  she  rest  ;  and  dwell  alone 
Under  the  greenwood  tree. 

The  engines  of  her  pain,  the  tools 

That  shaped  her  sorrow,  rocks  and  pools, 

And  airs  that  gently  stir 


FOURTH  319 

The  vernal  leaves — she  loved  them  still, 

Nor  ever  tax'd  them  with  the  ill 

Which  had  been  done  to  her. 

A  barn  her  Winter  bed  supplies  ; 

But,  till  the  warmth  of  Summer  skies 

And  Summer  days  is  gone, 

(And  all  do  in  this  tale  agree)  . 

She  sleeps  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

And  other  home  hath  none. 

An  innocent  life,  yet  far  astray  ! 

And  Ruth  will,  long  before  her  day, 

Be  broken  down  and  old. 

Sore  aches  she  needs  must  have  !  but  less 

Of  mind,  than  body's  wretchedness, 

From  damp,  and  rain,  and  cold. 

If  she  is  prest  by  want  of  food 

She  from  her  dwelling  in  the  wood 

Repairs  to  a  road-side  ; 

And  there  she  begs  at  one  steep  place, 

Where  up  and  down  with  easy  pace 

The  horsemen-travellers  ride. 

That  oaten  pipe  of  hers  is  mute 

Or  thrown  away  :  but  with  a  flute 

Her  loneliness  she  cheers  ; 

This  flute,  made  of  a  hemlock  stalk, 

At  evening  in  his  homeward  walk 

The  Quantock  woodman  hears. 

I,  too,  have  pass'd  her  on  the  hills 

Setting  her  little  water-mills 

By  spouts  and  fountains  wild — 

Such  small  machinery  as  she  turn'd 

Ere  she  had  wept,  ere  she  had  mourn'd,— 

A  young  and  happy  child  ! 

Farewell  !  and  when  thy  days  are  told, 

Ill-fated  Ruth  !  in  hallow'd  mould 

Thy  corpse  shall  buried  be  ; 

For  thee  a  funeral  bell  shall  ring, 

And  all  the  congregation  sing 

A  Christian  psalm  for  thee. 

Wordsworth 


320  BOOK 


CCCXXI 

WRITTEN  AMONG  THE 
EUGANEAN  HILLS 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  Misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track  ; 
Whilst  above,  the  sunless  sky 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 
Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 
Longing  with  divided  will, 
But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 
He  is  ever  drifted  on 
O'er  the  unreposing  wave, 
To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

Ah,  many  flowering  islands  lie 
In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 
To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led 
My  bark,  by  soft  winds  piloted. 
— 'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 
I  stood  listening  to  the  paean 
With  which  the  legion'd  rooks  did  hail 
The  Sun's  uprise  majestical  : 
Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 


FOURTH  321 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 
Like  gray  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 
Bursts  ;  and  then, — as  clouds  of  even 
Fleck'd  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 
In  the  unfathomable  sky, — 
So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain 
Starr'd  with  drops  of  golden  rain 
Gleam  above  the  sunlight  woods, 
As  in  silent  multitudes 
On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 
Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail  ; 
And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 
Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 
Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still 
Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
J  bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 
Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  Day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, — 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half- reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire. 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City  !  thou  hast  been 
Y 


322 


BOOK 

Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen  j 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be, — when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 
Save  where  many  a  palace-gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandon'd  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep^ 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Noon  descends  around  me  now  : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a.  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath  ;  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  Frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines 


FOURTH  323 

Fiercing  with  their  trellised  lines 

The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 

The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 

Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 

In  the  windless  air  ;  the  flower 

Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 

Of  the  olive-sandall'd  Apennine 

In  the  -south  dimly  islanded  ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darken'd  this  swift  stream  of  song, — 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Oi  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse, 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 
Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 
Leading  the  infantine  moon 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
Almost  seems  to  minister 
Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 
From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs  : 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn 
(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 
'Mid  remember'd  agonies, 
The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being), 
Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 
And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  Life  and  Agony  : 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulf :  Ev'n  now,  perhaps, 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 

Y    2 


324  BOOK 

With  folded  wings  they  waiting  sit 

For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 

To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove  ; 

Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawn}  hills 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine, 

— We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  Spirits  of  the  Air 

Envying  us,  may  ev'n  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude : 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves  ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies  ; 

And  the  Love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood  : — 

They,  not  it,  would  change  ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  Earth  grow  young  again. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  325 


ODE  TO  THE  WEST  WIND 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 
Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  !  O  thou 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 
The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  Spring  shall  blow 
Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill  : 
Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  everywhere  ; 
Destroyer  and  Preserver  ;  Hear,  oh  hear  ! 

Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  com- 
motion, 

Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  heaven  and  ocean, 
Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  !  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 
Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  ev'n  from  the  dim  verge  . 
Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height — 
The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 
Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 
Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail,  will  burst  :  Oh  hear  ! 

Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer-dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lull'd  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 
Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 


326  BOOK 

All  overgrown  with  azure  moss,  and  flowers 
So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !  Thou 
For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 
Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  v/ear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 
Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  gray  with  fear 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  Oh  hear  ! 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 
If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 
A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 
The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  Thou,  O  uncontrollable  !  If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 
The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 
As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 
Scarce  seem'd  a  vision, — I  would  ne'er  have  striven 
As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh  !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !  I  bleed  ! 
A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chain'd  and  bow'd 
One  too  like  thee — tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  ev'n  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 
Will  take  from  both  a  deep  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  Spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit  !  be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 
Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe, 
Like  wither'd  leaves,  to  quicken  a  new  birth  ; 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 
Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguish'd  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawaken'd  earth 
The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !  O  Wind, 
[f  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind? 

P.  B.  Shelley 


FOURTH  327 

CCCXXIII 

NATURE  AND  THE  POET 

Suggested  by  a  Picture  of  Peek  Castle  in  a  Storm, 
painted  by  Sir  George  Beaumont 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile  ! 
Four  summer  weeks  I  dwelt  in  sight  of  thee  : 
I  saw  thee  every  day  ;  and  all  the  while 
Thy  Form  was  sleeping  on  a  glassy  sea. 

So  pure  the  sky,  so  quiet  was  the  air  ! 
So  like,  so  very  like,  was  day  to  day  ! 
Whene'er  I  look'd,  thy  image  still  was  there  ; 
It  trembled,  but  it  never  pass'd  away. 

How  perfect  was  the  calm  !  It  seem'd  no  sleep, 
No  mood,  which  season  takes  away,  or  brings : 
I  could  have  fancied  that  the  mighty  Deep 
Was  even  the  gentlest  of  all  gentle  things. 

Ah  !  then — if  mine  had  been  the  painter's  hand 
To  express  what  then  I  saw ;  and  add  the  gleam, 
The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 
The  consecration,  and  the  Poet's  dream, — 

I  would  have  planted  tjiee,  thou  hoary  pile, 
Amid  a  world  how  different  from  this  ! 
Beside  a  sea  that  could  not  cease  to  smile  ; 
On  tranquil  land,  beneath  a  sky  of  bliss. 

Thou  shouldst  have  seem'd  a  treasure-house  divine 
Of  peaceful  years  ;  a  chronicle  of  heaven  ; — 
Of  all  the  sunbeams  that  did  ever  shine 
The  very  sweetest  had  to  thee  been  given. 

A  picture  had  it  been  of  lasting  ease, 
Elysian  quiet,  without  toil  or  strife  ; 
No  motion  but  the  moving  tide  ;  a  breeze  ; 
Or  merely  silent  Nature's  breathing  life. 


328  BOOK 

Such,  in  the  fond  illusion  of  my  heart, 

Such  picture  would  I  at  that  time  have  made  ; 

And  seen  the  soul  of  truth  in  every  part, 

A  steadfast  peace  that  might  not  be  betray'd. 

So  once  it  would  have  been, — 'tis  so  no  more  ; 
I  have  submitted  to  a  new  control : 
A  power  is  gone,  which  nothing  can  restore  ; 
A  deep  distress  hath  humanized  my  soul. 

Not  for  a  moment  could  I  now  behold 
A  smiling  sea,  and  be  what  I  have  been  : 
The  feeling  of  my  loss  will  ne'er  be  old  ; 
This,  which  I  know',  1  speak  with  mind  serene. 

Then,  Beaumont,  Friend  !  who  would  have  been  the 

friend 

If  he  had  lived,  of  Him  whom  I  deplore, 
This  work  of  thine  I  blame  not,  but  commend  ; 
This  sea  in  anger,  and  that  dismal  shore. 

0  'tis  a  passionate  work  !— yet  wise  and  well, 
Well  chosen  is  the  spirit  that  is  here  ; 

That  hulk  which  labours  in  the  deadly  swell, 
This  rueful  sky,  this  pageantry  of  fear  ! 

And  this  huge  Castle,  standing  here  sublime, 

1  love  to  see  the  look  with  which  it  braves, 
— Cased  in  the  unfeeling  armour  of  old  time — 

The  lightning,  the  fierce  wind,  and  trampling  waves. 

— Farewell,  farewell  the  heart  that  lives  alone, 
Housed  in  a  dream,  at  distance  from  the  Kind  ! 
Such  happiness,  wherever  it  be  known, 
Is  to  be  pitied  ;  for  'tis  surely  blind. 

But  welcome  fortitude,  and  patient  cheer, 
And  frequent  sights  of  what  is  to  be  borne  ! 
Such  sights,  or  worse,  as  are  before  me  .here  : — 
Not  without  hope  we  suffer  and  we  mourn. 

W.  Wordsworth 


FOURTH  329 


CCCXXIV 

THE  POET'S  DREAM 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 

Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 

In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept  ; 

Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 

But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 

Of  shapes  that  haunt  Thought's  wildernesses. 

He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 

The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 

Nor  heed  nor  see  what  things  they  be — 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  Man, 

Nurslings  of  Immortality  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


cccxxv 
GLEN-ALMAIN,  THE  NARROW  GLEN 

In  this  still  place,  remote  from  men, 

Sleeps  Ossian,  in  the  Narrow  Glen  ; 

In  this  still  place,  where  murmurs  on 

But  one  meek  streamlet,  only  one  : 

He  sang  of  battles,  and  the  breath 

Of  stormy  war,  and  violent  death  ; 

And  should,  methinks,  when  all  was  past, 

Have  rightfully  been  laid  at  last 

Where  rocks  were  rudely  heap'd,  and  rent 

As  by  a  spirit  turbulent ; 

Where  sights  were  rough,  and  sounds  were  wild, 

And  everything  unreconciled  ; 

In  some  complaining,  dim  retreat, 

For  fear  and  melancholy  meet ; 

But  this  is  calm  ;  there  cannot  be 

A  more  entire  tranquillity. 


330  BOOK 

Does  then  the  Bard  sleep  here  indeed  ? 
Or  is  it  but  a  groundless  creed  ? 
What  matters  it  ? — I  blame  them  not 
Whose  fancy  in  this  lonely  spot 
Was  moved  ;  and  in  such  way  express'd 
Their  notion  of  its  perfect  rest. 
A  convent,  even  a  hermit's  cell, 
Would  break  the  silence  of  this  Dell  *. 
It  is  not  quiet,  is  not  ease  ; 
But  something  deeper  far  than  these  : 
The  separation  that  is  here 
Is  of  the  grave  ;  and  of  austere 
Yet  happy  feelings  of  the  dead  : 
And,  therefore,  was  it  rightly  said 
That  Ossian,  last  of  all  his  race  ! 
Lies  buried  in  this  lonely  place. 

W.  Wordsworth 


The  World  is  too  much  with  us  ;  late  and  soon, 
Getting  and  spending,  we  lay  waste  our  powers  ; 
Little  we  see  in  Nature  that  is  ours  ; 
We  have  given  our  hearts  away,  a  sordid  boon  ! 

This  Sea  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the  moon, 
The  winds  that  will  be  howling  at  all  hours 
And  are  up-gather'd  now  like  sleeping  flowers, 
For  this,  for  every  thing,  we  are  out  of  tune  ; 

It  moves  us  not. — Great  God  !  I'd  rather  be 
A  Pagan  suckled  in  a  creed  outworn, — 
So  might  I,  standing  on  this  pleasant  lea, 

Have  glimpses  that  would  make  me  less  forlorn  ; 
Have  sight  of  Proteus  rising  from  the  sea  ; 
Or  hear  old  Triton  blow  his  wreathed  horn. 
W.  Wordsworth 


FOURTH  33* 

CCCXXVII 

WITHIN  KING'S  COLLEGE  CHAPEL, 
CAMBRIDGE 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense, 
With  ill-match'd  aims  the  Architect  who  plann'd 
(Albeit  labouring  for  a  scanty  ba'nd 
Of  white-robed  Scholars  only)  this  immense 

And  glorious  work  of  fine  intelligence  ! 

—Give  all  thou  canst ;  high  Heaven  rejects  the  lore 

Of  nicely-calculated  less  or  more  : — 

So  deem'd  the  man  who  fashion'd  for  the  sense 

These  lofty  pillars,  spread  that  branching  roof 
Self- poised,  and  scoop'd  into  ten  thousand  cells 
Where  light  and  shade  repose,  where  music  dwells 

Lingering — and  wandering  on  as  loth  to  die  ; 
Like  thoughts  whose  very  sweetness  yieldeth  proof 
That  they  were  born  for  immortality. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCXXVIII 

ODE  ON  A  GRECIAN  URN 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness, 

Thou  foster-child  of  silence  and  slow  time, 
Sylvan  historian,  who  canst  thus  express 

A  flowery  tale  more  sweetly  than  our  rhyme  : 
What  leaf-fringed  legend  haunts  about  thy  shape 

Of  deities  or  mortals,  or  of  both, 

In  Tempe  or  the  dales  of  Arcady  ? 
What  men  or  gods  are  these  ?  What  maidens  loth  ? 

What  mad  pursuit?  What  struggle  to  escape? 
What  pipes  and  timbrels  ?  What  wild  ecstasy  ? 

Heard  melodies  are  sweet,  but  those  unheard 
Are  sweeter  ;  therefore,  ye  soft  pipes,  play  on  ; 

Not  to  the  sensual  ear,  but,  more  endear'd, 
Pipe  to  the  spirit  ditties  of  no  tone  : 


332  BOOK 

Fair  youth,  beneath  the  trees,  thou  canst  not  leave. 
Thy  song,  nor  ever  can  those  trees  be  bare  ; 
Bold  Lover,  never,  never  canst  thou  kiss, 
Though  winning  near  the  goal — yet,  do  not  grieve-, 
She  cannot  fade,  though  thou  hast  not  thy  bliss, 
For  ever  wilt  thou  love,  and  she  be  fair  ! 

Ah,  happy,  happy  boughs  !  that  cannot  shed 

Your  leaves,  nor  ever  bid  the  Spring  adieu  ; 
And,  happy  melodist,  unwearied, 

For  ever  piping  songs  for  ever  new  ; 
More  happy  love  !  more  happy,  happy  love  ! 

For  ever  warm  and  still  to  be  enjoy'd, 

For  ever  panting,  and  for  ever  young  ; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 

That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloy'd, 
A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue. 

Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice  ? 

To  what  green  altar,  O  mysterious  priest, 
Lead'st  thou  that  heifer  lowing  at  the  skies, 

And  all  her  silken  flanks  with  garlands  drest  ? 
What  little  town  by  river  or  sea  shore, 

Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel, 

Is  emptied  of  this  folk,  this  pious  morn? 
And,  little  town,  thy  streets  for  evermore 

Will  silent  be  ;  and  not  a  soul  to  tell 
Why  thou  art  desolate,  can  e'er  return. 

O  Attic  shape  !  Fair  attitude  !  with  brede 

Of  marble  men  and  maidens  overwrought, 
With  forest  branches  and  the  trodden  weed  ; 

Thou,  silent  form,  dost  tease  us  out  of  thought 
As  doth  eternity  :  Cold  Pastoral  ! 

When  old  age  shall  this  generation  waste, 

Thou  shalt  remain,  in  midst  of  other  woe 
Than  ours,  a  friend  to  man,  to  whom  thou  say'st, 
'  Beauty  is  truth,  truth  beauty,' — that  is  all 
Ye  know  on  earth,  and  all  ye  need  to  know 
/.  Keats 


FOURTH  333 

CCCXXIX 

YOUTH  AND  AGE 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !  Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 

When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young  ? — Ah,  woful  when  ! 
Ah  !  for  the  change  'twixt  Now  and  Then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong, 
O'er  aery  cliffs  and  glittering  sands 
How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along  : 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide, 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Nought  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;  Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree  ; 
O  !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 

Ere  I  was  old  ?  Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 

0  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known  that  Thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be,  that  Thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd  :— 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on 
To  make  believe  that  Thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size  : 
But  Springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips, 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes ! 
Life  is  but  Thought  :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  still. 


334  BOOK 

Dew-drops  are  the  gems  of  morning, 
But  the  tears  of  mournful  eve  ! 
Where  no  hope  is,  life's  a  warning 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 

When  we  are  old  : 

— That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve 
With  oft  and  tedious  taking-leave, 
Like  some  poor  nigh-related  guest 
That  may  not  rudely  be  dismist, 
Yet  hath  out-stay'd  his  welcome  while, 
And  tells  the  jest  without  the  smile. 

S.  T.  Coleridge 


cccxxx 
THE  TWO  APRIL  MORNINGS 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 
Uprose  the  morning  sun  ; 
And  Matthew  stopp'd,  helook'd,  and  said 
'  The  will  of  God  be  done  ! ' 

A  village  schoolmaster  was  he, 
With  hair  of  glittering  gray  ; 
As  blithe  a  man  as  you  could  see 
On  a  spring  holiday. 

And  on  that  morning,  through  the  grass 
And  by  the  steaming  rills 
We  travell'd  merrily,  to  pass 
A  day  among  the  hills. 

*  Our  work,'  said  I,  *  was  well  begun  ; 
Then,  from  thy  breast  what  thought, 
Beneath  so  beautiful  a  sun, 
So  sad  a  sigh  has  brought  ? ' 

A  second  time  did  Matthew  stop  ; 
And  fixing  still  his  eye 
Upon  the  eastern  mountain-top, 
To  me  he  made  reply  : 


FOURTH  335 

long 

Brings  fresh  into  my  mind 
A  day  like  this,  which  I  have  left 
Full  thirty  years  behind. 

'  And  just  above  yon  slope  of  corn 
Such  colours,  and  no  other, 
Were  in  the  sky  that  April  morn, 
Of  this  the  very  brother. 

*  With  rod  and  line  I  sued  the  sport 
Which  that  sweet  season  gave, 

And  to  the  church-yard  come,  stopp'd  short 
Beside  my  daughter's  grave. 

*  Nine  summers  had  she  scarcely  seen, 
The  pride  of  all  the  vale  ; 

And  then  she  sang, — she  would  have  been 
A  very  nightingale. 

'  Six  feet  in  earth  my  Emma  lay ; 
And  yet  I  loved  her  more — 
For  so  it  seem'd, — than  till  that  day 
I  e'er  had  loved  before. 

*  And  turning  from  her  grave,  I  met, 
Beside  the  churchyard  yew, 

A  blooming  Girl,  whose  hair  was  wet 
With  points  of  morning  dew. 

*  A  basket  on  her  head  she  bare  ; 
Her  brow  was  smooth  and  white  : 
To  see  a  child  so  very -fair, 

It  was  a  pure  delight  ! 

*  No  fountain  from  its  rocky  cave 
E'er  tripp'd  with  foot  so  free  ; 
She  seem'd  as  happy  as  a  wave 
That  dances  on  the  sea. 

*  There  came  from  me  a  sigh  of  pain 
Which  I  could  ill  confine  ; 

I  look'd  at  her,  and  look'd  again : 
And  did  not  wish  her  mine  ! ' 


336  BOOK 

— Matthew  is  in  his  grave,  yet  now 
Methinks  I  see  him  stand 
As  at  that  moment,  with  a  bough 
Of  wilding  in  his  hand. 

W.    Wordsworth 


cccxxxi 

THE  FOUNTAIN 
A  Conversation 

We  talk'd  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true, 
A  pair  of  friends,  though  I  was  young, 
And  Matthew  seventy-two. 

We  lay  beneath  a  spreading  oak, 
Beside  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  from  the  turf  a  fountain  broke 
And  gurgled  at  our  feet. 

*  Now,  Matthew  ! '  said  I,  *  let  us  match 
This  water's  pleasant  tune 

With  some  old  border-song,  or  catch 
That  suits  a  summer's  noon  ; 

'  Or  of  the  church-clock  and  the  chimes 
Sing  here  beneath  the  shade 
That  half-mad  thing  of  witty  rhymes 
Which  you  last  April  made  I ' 

In  silence  Matthew  lay,  and  eyed 
The  spring  beneath  the  tree  ; 
And  thus  the  dear  old  man  replied, 
The  gray-hair'd  man  of  glee, : 

*  No  check,  no  stay,  this  Streamlet  fears, 
How  merrily  it  goes  ! 

'Twill  murmur  on  a  thousand  years 
And  flow  as  now  it  flows. 


FOURTH  337 

'  And  here,  on  this  delightful  day, 
I  cannot  choose  but  think 
How  oft,  a  vigorous  man,  I  lay 
Beside  this  fountain's  brink. 

*  My  eyes  are  dim  with  childish  tears, 
My  heart  is  idly  stirr'd, 

For  the  same  sound  is  in  my  ears 
Which  in  those  days  I  heard. 

*  Thus  fares  it  still  in  our  decay  : 
And  yet  the  wiser  mind 

Mourns  less  for  what  Age  takes  away, 
Than  what  it  leaves  behind. 

*  The  blackbird  amid  leafy  trees, 
The  lark  above  the  hill, 

Let  loose  their  carols  when  they  please, 
Are  quiet  when  they  will. 

'  With  Nature  never  do  they  wage 
A  foolish  strife  ;  they  see 
A  happy  youth,  and  their  old  age 
Is  beautiful  and  free  : 

'  But  we  are  press'd  by  heavy  laws ; 
And  often,  glad  no  more, 
We  wear  a  face  of  joy,  because 
We  have  been  glad  of  yore. 

'  If  there  be  one  who  need  bemoan 
His  kindred  laid  in  earth, 
The  household  hearts  that  were  his  own,^ 
It  is  the  man  of  mirth. 

*  My  days,  my  friend,  are  almost  gone, 
My  life  has  been  approved, 

And  many  love  me  ;  but  by  none 
Am  I  enough  beloved.' 

*  Now  both  himself  and  me  he  wrongs, 
The  man  who  thus  complains  ! 

I  live  and  sing  my  idle  songs 
Upon  these  happy  plains  : 


338  BOOK 

*  And  Matthew,  for  thy  children  dead 
I'll  be  a  son  to  thee  ! ' 

At  this  he  grasp'd  my  hand  and  said, 

*  Alas  !  that  cannot  be.' 

— We  rose  up  from  the  fountain-side  ; 
And  down  the  smooth  descent 
Of  the  green  sheep-track  did  we  glide  ; 
And  through  the  wood  we  went ; 

And  ere  we  came  to  Leonard's  rock 
He  sang  those  witty  rhymes 
About  the  crazy  old  church-clock, 
And  the  bewilder'd  chimes. 

W.    Wordsworth 


CCCXXXII 

THE  RIVER  OF  LIFE 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 

Our  life's  succeeding  stages  : 
A  day  to  childhood  seems  a  year, 

And  years  like  passing  ages. 

The  gladsome  current  of  our  youth, 

Ere  passion  yet  disorders, 
Steals  lingering  like  a  river  smooth  . 

Along  its  grassy  borders. 

But  as  the  care-worn  cheek  grows  wan, 
And  sorrow's  shafts  fly  thicker, 

Ye  Stars,  that  measure  life  to  man, 
Why  seem  your  courses  quicker  ? 

When  joys  have  lost  their  bloom  and  breath 

And  life  itself  is  vapid, 
Why,  as  we  reach  the  Falls-of  Death, 

Feel  we  its  tide  more  rapid  ? 

It  may  be  strange — yet  who  would  change 
Time's  course  to  slower  speeding, 

When  one  by  one  our  friends  have  gone 
And  left  our  bosoms  bleeding  ? 


FOURTH  339 

Heaven  gives  our  years  of  fading  strength 

Indemnifying  fleetness ; 
And  those  of  youth,  a  seeming  length, 

Proportion'd  to  their  sweetness. 

T.  Campbell 


CCCXXXIII 

THE  HUMAN  SEASONS 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year  ; 
There  are  four  seasons  in  the  mind  of  man  : 
He  has  his  lusty  Spring,  when  fancy  clear 
Takes  in  all  beauty  with  an  easy  span  : 

He  has  his  Summer,  when  luxuriously 
Spring's  honey'd  cud  of  youthful  thought  he  loves 
To  ruminate,  and  by  such  dreaming  high 
Is  nearest  unto  heaven  :  quiet  coves 

His  soul  has  in  its  Autumn,  when  his  wings 
He  furleth  close  ;  contented  so  to  look 
On  mists  in  idleness— to  let  fair  things 
Pass  by  unheeded  as  a  threshold  brook. 

He  has  his  Winter  too  of  pale  misfeature, 
Or  else  he  would  forego  his  mortal  nature. 

/.  Keat*. 

CCCXXXIV 

A  DIRGE 

Rough  wind,  that  meanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song  ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long  ; 
Sad  storm  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods  whose  branches  stain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, — 

Wail  for  the  world's  wrong  1 

P.  B.  Shelley 

Z   2 


340  BOOK 


cccxxxv 

THRENOS 

O  World  !  O  Life  !  O  Time  ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb, 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before  ? 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 

Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight : 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — Oh,  never  more  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley 


CCCXXXVI 

THE  TRO SACHS 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass, , 
But  were  an  apt  confessional  for  One 
Taught  by  his  summer  spent,  his  autumn  gone, 
That  Life  is  but  a  tale  of  morning  grass 

Wither' d  at  eve.     From  scenes  of  art  which  chase 
That  thought  away,  turn,  and  with  watchful  eyes 
Feed  it  'mid  Nature's  old  felicities, 
Rocks,  rivers,  and  smooth  lakes  more  clear  than  glas 

Untouch'd,  unbreathed  upon  : — Thrice  happy  quest, 
If  from  a  golden  perch  of  aspen  spray 
(October's  workmanship  to  rival  May), 

The  pensive  warbler  of  the  ruddy  breast 
That  moral  sweeten  by  a  heaven-taught  lay, 
Lulling  tne  year,  with  all  its  cares,  to  rest ! 

W.    Wordsworth 


FOURTH  341 


CCCXXXVII 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 

A  rainbow  in  the  sky  : 
So  was  it  when  my  life  began, 
So  is  it  now  I  am  a  man, 
So  be  it  when  I  shall  grow  old 

Or  let  me  die  ! 

The  Child  is  father  of  the  Man  : 
And  I  could  wish  my  days  to  be 
Bound  each  to  each  by  natural  piety. 

W.  Wordsworth 


CCCXXXVII  I 

ODE  ON  INTIMATIONS  OF  IMMORTALITY 

FROM  RECOLLECTIONS   OF  EARLY 

CHILDHOOD 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream, 
The  earth,  and  every  common  sight 

To  me  did  seem 
Apparell'd  in  celestial  light, 
The  glory  and  the  freshness  of  a  dream. 
It  is  not  now  as  it  hath  been  of  yore  ; — 
Turn  wheresoe'er  I  may, 

By  night  or  day, 
The  things  which  I  Irave  seen  I  now  can  see  no  more, 

The  rainbow  comes  and  goes, 

And  lovely  is  the  rose  ; 

The  moon  doth  with  delight 
Look  round  her  when  the  heavens  are  bare  ; 

Waters  on  a  starry  night 

Are  beautiful  and  fair  ; 
The  sunshine  is  a  glorious  birth  ; 
But  yet  I  know,  where'er  I  go, 
That  there  hath  past  away  a  glory  from  the  earth. 

Now,  while  the  birds  thus  sing  a  joyous  song, 
And  while  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  s  >und, 


342  BOOK 

To  me  alone  there  came  a  thought  of  grief : 
A  timely  utterance  gave  that  thought  relief, 

And  I  again  am  strong. 

The  cataracts  blow  their  trumpets  from  the  steep  $— 
No  more  shall  grief  of  mine  the  season  wrong : 
I  hear  the  echoes  through  the  mountains  throng, 
The  winds  come  to  me  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
And  all  the  earth  is  gay  ; 

Land  and  sea 
Give  themselves  up  to  jollity, 

And  with  the  heart  of  May 
Doth  every  beast  keep  holiday  ; — 

Thou  child  of  joy 
Shout  round  me,  let  me  hear  thy  shouts,  thou  happy 

Shepherd-boy  ! 
Ye  blessed  Creatures,  I  have  heard  the  call 

Ye  to  each  other  make  ;  I  see 
The  heavens  laugh  with  you  in  your  jubilee  ; 
My  heart  is  at  your  festival, 
My  head  hath  its  coronal, 
The  fulness  of  your  bliss,  I  feel — I  feel  it  all. 
Oh  evil  day  !  if  I  were  sullen 
While  Earth  herself  is  adorning 
This  sweet  May-morning ; 
And  the  children  are  culling 

On  every  side 

In  a  thousand  valleys  far  and  wide, 
Fresh  flowers  ;  while^the  sun  shines  warm 
And  the  babe  leaps  up  on  his  mother's  arm  : — 
I  hear,  I  hear,  with  joy  I  hear  ! 
— But  there's  a  tree,  of  many,  one, 
A  single  field  which  I  have  look'd  upon, 
Both  of  them  speak  of  something  that  is  gone : 
The  pansy  at  my  feet 
Doth  the  same  tale  repeat ; 
Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream  ? 
Our  birth  is  but  a  sleep  and  a  forgetting  ; 
The  Soul  that  rises  with  us,  our  life's  Star, 
Hath  had  elsewhere  its  setting 
And  cometh  from  afar ; 


FOURTH  343 

Not  in  entire  forgetfulness, 
And  not  in  utter  nakedness, 
But  trailing  clouds  of  glory  do  we  come 

From  God,  who  is  our  home  : 
Heaven  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy  ! 
Shades  of  the  prison-house  begin  to  close 

Upon  the  growing  Boy, 
But  he  beholds  the  light,  and  whence  it  flows, 

He  sees  it  in  his  joy  ; 

The  Youth,  who  daily  farther  from  the  east 
Must  travel,  still  is  Nature's  priest, 
And  by  the  vision  splendid 
Is  on  his  way  attended  ; 
At  length  the  Man  perceives  it  die  away, 
And  fade  into  the  light  of  common  day. 

Earth  fills  her  lap  with  pleasures  of  her  own  ; 
Yearnings  she  hath  in  her  own  natural  kind, 
And,  even  with  something  of  a  mother's  mind 

And  no  unworthy  aim, 
The  homely  nurse  doth  all  she  can 
To  make  her  foster-child,  her  inmate,  Man, 

Forget  the  glories  he  hath  known. 
And  that  imperial  palace  whence  he  came. 

Behold  the  Child  among  his  new-born  blisses, 
A  six  years'  darling  of  a  pigmy  size  ! 
See,  where  'mid  work  of  his  own  hand  he  lies, 
Fretted  by  sallies  of  his  mother's  kisses, 
With  light  upon  him  from  his  father's  eyes  ! 
See,  at  his  feet,  some  little  plan  or  chart, 
Some  fragment  from  his  dream  of  human  life, 
Shaped  by  himself  with  newly-learned  art ; 

A  wedding  or  a  festival, 

A  mourning  or  a  funeral  ; 

And  this  hath  now  his  heart, 

And  unto  this  he  frames  his  song : 

Then  will  he  fit  his  tongue 
To  dialogues  of  business,  love,  or  strife ; 

But  it  will  not  be  long 

Ere  this  be  thrown  aside, 

And  with  new  joy  and  pride 


344  BOOK 

The  little  actor  cons  another  part ; 
Filling  from  time  to  time  his  '  humorous  stage '' 
With  all  the  Persons,  down  to  palsied  Age, 
That  life  brings  with  her  in  her  equipage  ; 

As  if  his  whole  vocation 

Were  endless  imitation. 

Thou,  whose  exterior  semblance  doth  belie 

Thy  soul's  immensity ; 
Thou  best  philosopher,  who  yet  dost  keep 
Thy  heritage,  thou  eye  among  the  blind, 
That,  deaf  and  silent,  read'st  the  eternal  deep, 
Haunted  for  ever  by  the  eternal  Mind, — 

Mighty  Prophet !  Seer  blest ! 

On  whom  those  truths  do  rest 
Which  we  are  toiling  all  our  lives  to  find, 
In  darkness  lost,  the  darkness  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou,  over  whom  thy  Immortality 
Bioods  like  the  day,  a  master  o'er  a  slave, 
A  Presence  which  is  not  to  be  put  by  ; 
Thou  little  child,  yet  glorious  in  the  might 
Of  heaven-born  freedom  on  thy  being's  height, 
Why  with  such  earnest  pains  dost  thou  provoke 
The  years  to  bring  the  inevitable  yoke, 
Thus  blindly  with  thy  blessedness  at  strife  ? 
Full  soon  thy  soul  shall  have  her  earthly  freight, 
And  custom  lie  upon  thee  with  a  weight 
Heavy  as  frost,  and  deep  almost  as  life  ! 

O  joy  !  that  in  our  embers 

Is  something  that  doth  live, 

That  Nature  yet  remembers 

What  was  so  fugitive  ! 

The  thought  of  our  past  years  in  me  doth  breed 
Perpetual  benediction  :  not  indeed 
For  that  which  is  most  worthy  to  be  blest, 
Delight  and  liberty,  the  simple  creed 
Of  Childhood,  whether  busy  or  at  rest, 
With  new-fledged  hope  still  fluttering  in  his  breast :— . 

— Not  for  these  I  raise 

The  song  of  thanks  and  praise  ; 
But  for  those  obstinate  questionings 


FOURTH  345 

Of  sense  and  outward  things, 
Fallings  from  us,  vanishings  ; 
Blank  misgivings  of  a  creature 
Moving  about  in  worlds  not  realized, 
High  instincts,  before  which  our  mortal  nature 
Did  tremble  like  a  guilty  thing  surprized  : 
But  for  those  first  affections, 
Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 
Are  yet  the  fountain -light  of  all  our  day, 
Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing  ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 
Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 
Of  the  eternal  Silence  :  truths  that  wake, 

To  perish  never ; 
Which  neither  listlessness,  nor  mad  endeavour, 

Nor  man  nor  boy 
Nor  all  that  is  at  enmity  with  joy, 
Can  utterly  abolish  or  destroy  ! 

Hence,  in  a  season  of  calm  weather 

Though  inland  far  we  be, 
Our  souls  have  sight  of  that  immortal  sea 

Which  brought  us  hither  ; 
Can  in  a  moment  travel  thither — 
And  see  the  children  sport  upon  the  shore, 
And  hear  the  mighty  waters  rolling  evermore. 

Then,  sing  ye  birds,  sing,  sing  a  joyous  song  ! 
And  let  the  young  lambs  bound 
As  to  the  tabor's  sound  ! 
We,  in  thought,  will  join  your  throng 
Ye  that  pipe  and  ye  that  play, 
Ye  that  through  your  hearts  to-day 
Feel  the  gladness  of  the  May  ! 

What  though  the  radiance  which  was  once  so  bright 

Be  now  for  ever  taken  from  my  sight, 

Though  nothing  can  bring  back  the  hour 

Of  splendour  in  the  grass,  of  glory  in  the  flower ; 
We  will  grieve  not,  rather  find 
Strength  in  what  remains  behind ; 
In  the  primal  sympathy 
Which  having  been  must  ever  be  ; 


346  BOOK  FOURTH 

In  the  soothing  thoughts  that  spring 
Out  of  human  suffering  ; 
In  the  faith  that  looks  through  death, 
In  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind. 

And  O,  ye  Fountains,  Meadows,  Hills,  and  Groves, 

Forbode  not  any  severing  of  our  loves  ! 

Yet  in  my  heart  of  hearts  I  feel  your  might ; 

I  only  have  relinquish'd  one  delight 

To  live  beneath  your  more  habitual  sway  : 

I  love  the  brooks  which  down  their  channels  fret 

Even  more  than  when  I  tripp'd  lightly  as  they ; 

The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 

Is  lovely  yet ; 

The  clouds  that  gather  round  the  setting  sun 
Do  take  a  sober  colouring  from  an  eye 
That  hath  kept  watch  o'er  man's  mortality ; 
Another  race  hath  been,  and  other  palms  are  won. 
Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys,  and  fears. 
To  me  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  can  give 
Thoughts  that  do  often  lie  too  deep  for  tears. 

W.    Wordsworth 


cccxxxix 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die, 
Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose  leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heap'd  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  Thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

P.  B.  Shelley 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS 


ffioltren  ftreasurg 
&trtjttt0nai 


CCCXL 


I  strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife; 

Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  Nature,  Art ; 
I  warmed  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life ; 

It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

W.  S.  Landor 


ROSE  AYLMER 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race ! 

Ah  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 

Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 
Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 

May  weep,  but  never  see, 
A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 

I  consecrate  to  thee. 

W.  S.  Landor 

CCCXLII 
TO  ROBERT  BROWNING 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear 
Beside  the  singer :  and  there  is  delight 
In  praising,  tho'  the  praiser  sit  alone 
And  see  the  praised  far  of!  him,  far  above. 


350  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Shakespeare  is  not  our  poet,  but  the  world's, 

Therefore  on  him  no  speech !    and  brief  for  thee, 

Browning  !     Since  Chaucer  was  alive  and  hale, 

No  man  hath  walked  along  our  roads  with  step 

So  active,  so  inquiring  eye,  or  tongue 

So  varied  in  discourse.     But  warmer  climes 

Give  brighter  plumage,  stronger  wing :   the  breeze 

Of  Alpine  heights  thou  playest  with,  borne  on 

Beyond  Sorrento  and  Amain,  where 

The  Siren  waits  thee,  singing  sing  for  song. 

W.  S.  Landor 

cccxLin 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak 
Four  not  exempt  from  pride  some  future  day. 

Resting  on  one  white  hand  a  warm  wet  cheek 
Over  my  open  volume  you  will  say, 
'This  man  loved  me!'  then  rise  and  trip  away. 

W.  S.  Landor 

CCCXLIV 
RONDEAU 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in ; 

Time,  you  thief,  who  love  to  get 

1    Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in  ! 

Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me, 

Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add, 

Jenny  kiss'd  me.  /.  H.  Leigh  Hunt 


CCCXLV 
THREE  MEN  OF  GOTHAM 

Seamen  three  I    What  men  be  ye  ? 

Gotham's  three  wise  men  we  be. 
Whither  in  your  bowl  so  free? 

To  rake  the  moon  from  out  the  sea. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  351 

The  bowl  goes  trim.'   The  moon  doth  shine. 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

Who  art  thou,  so  fast  adrift? 

I  am  he  they  call  Old  Care. 
Here  on  board  we  will  thee  lift. 

No  :  I  may  not  enter  there. 
Wherefore  so?     'Tis  Jove's  decree, 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 
In  a  bowl  Care  may  not  be. 

Fear  ye  not  the  waves  that  roll  ? 

No :  in  charmed  bowl  we  swim. 
What  the  charm  that  floats  the  bowl? 

Water  may  not  pass  the  brim. 
The  bowl  goes  trim.     The  moon  doth  shine. 
And  our  ballast  is  old  wine. 
And  your  ballast  is  old  wine. 

T.  L.  Peacock 


CCCXLVI 

AND  SHALL   TRELAWNY  DIE? 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand  ! 

A  merry  heart  and  true  ! 
King  James's  men  shall  understand 

What  Cornish  lads  can  do. 

And  have  they  fixed  the  where  and  when  ? 

And  shall  Trelawny  die  ? 
Here's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  men 

Will  know  the  reason  why  ! 

Out  spake  their  captain  brave  and  bold, 

A  merry  wight  was  he  : 
'If  London  Tower  were  Michael's  hold, 

We'll  set  Trelawny  free  ! 


352  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

'We'll  cross  the  Tamar,  land  to  land, 

The  Severn  is  no  stay, — 
With  "one  and  all,"  and  hand  in  hand, 

And  who  shall  bid  us  nay  ? 

'  And  when  we  come  to  London  Wall, 

A  pleasant  sight  to  view, 
Come  forth !     Come  forth,  ye  cowards  all, 

Here'  s  men  as  good  as  you. 

*  Trelawny  he  's  in  keep  and  hold, 

Trelawny  he  may  die ; — 
But  here  's  twenty  thousand  Cornish  bold 

Will  know  the  reason  why ! ' 

R.  S.  Hawker 


CCCXLVII 

THE  SHAN  DON  BELLS 

With  deep  affection, 
And  recollection, 
I  often  think  of 

Those  Shandon  bells, 
Whose  sounds  so  wild  would, 
In  the  days  of  childhood, 
Fling  round  my  cradle 

Their  magic  spells. 
On  this  I  ponder 
Where'er  I  wander, 
And  thus  grow  fonder, 

Sweet  Cork,  of  thee; 
With  thy  bells  of  Shandon, 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 
I've  heard  bells  chiming 
Full  many  a  clime  in, 
Tolling  sublime  in 

Cathedral  shrine, 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  353 

While  at  a  glibe  rate 

Brass  tongues  would  vibrate — 

But  all  their  music 

Spoke  naught  like  thine ; 
For  memory,  dwelling 
On  each  proud  swelling 
Of  thy  belfry  knelling 

Its  bold  notes  free, 
Made  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 
I've  heard  bells  tolling 
Old  Adrian's  Mole  in, 
Their  thunder  rolling 

From  the  Vatican, 
And  cymbals  glorious 
Swinging  uproarious 
In  the  gorgeous  turrets 

Of  Notre  Dame : 
But  thy  sounds  were  /sweeter 
Than  the  dome  of  Peter 
Flings  o'er  the  Tiber, 

Pealing  solemnly ; — 
O !  the  bells  of  Shandon 
Sound  far  more  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 

Of  the  River  Lee. 
There's  a  bell  in  Moscow, 
While  on  tower  and  kiosk  O 
In  Saint  Sophia 

The  Turkman  gets ; 
And  loud  in  air 
Calls  men  to  prayer 
From  the  tapering  summit 

Of  tall  minarets. 
Such  empty  phantom 
I  freely  grant  them ; 
But  there  is  an  anthem 
More  dear  to  me, — 

2A 


354  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

'Tis  the  bells  of  Shandon 
That  sound  so  grand  on 
The  pleasant  waters 
Of  the  River  Lee. 

F.  Mahony  (Father  Prout) 


FROM  'SONNETS  FROM  THE  PORTUGUESE' 

CCCXLVIII 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young : 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 
I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  my  tears, 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years, 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair ; 
And  a  voice  said  in  mastery,  while  I  strove,  .  .  . 

1  Guess   now  who  holds  thee?' — 'Death,'   I   said. 

But  there, 

The  silver  answer  rang,  .  .  .  'Not  Death,  but 
Love/ 

CCCXLDC 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 

And  princely  giver,  who  hast  brought  the  gold 
And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained,  untold, 

And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the  wall 

For  such  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal, 
In  unexpected  largesse?  am  I  cold, 
Ungrateful,  that  for  these  most  manifold 

High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at  all  ? 

Not  so ;  not  cold, — but  very  poor  instead. 
Ask  God  who  knows.    For  frequent  tears  have  run 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  355 

The  colours  from  my  life,  and  left  so  dead 
And  pale  a  stuff,  it  were  not  fitly  done 

To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy  head. 
Go  farther !  let  it  serve  to  trample  on. 

CCCL 

Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 

And  worthy  of  acceptation.     Fire  is  bright, 
Let  temple  burn,  or  flax.     And  equal  light 

Leaps  in  the  flame  from  cedar-plank  or  weed. 

And  love  is  fire ;  and  when  I  say  at  need 

/  love  thee  . . .  mark  I ...  I  love  thee ! ...  in  thy  sight 
I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright, 

With  conscience  of  the  new  rays  that  proceed 

Out  of  my  face  toward  thine.     There's  nothing  low 
In  love,  when  love  the  lowest :  meanest  creatures 

Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  loving  so. 
And  what  I  feel,  across  the  inferior  features 

Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself,  and  show 

How  that  great  work  of  Love  enhances  Nature's. 

CCCLI 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 
*  I  love  her  for  her  smile  .  .  .  her  look  .  .  .  her  way 

Of  speaking  gently,  ...  for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day ' — 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  Belove*d,  may 

Be   changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love,    so 
wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 
Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, — 

A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who  bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby ! 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 
Thou  mayst  love  on,  through  love's  eternity. 


356  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

CCCLII 

How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways. 

I  love  thee  to  the  depth  and  breadth  and  height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 

Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 

With  my  lost  saints, — I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life ! — and,  if  God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

E.  B.  Browning 

CCCLIII 
A   MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god  Pan, 

Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river? 
Spreading  ruin  and  scattering  ban, 

Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of  a  goat, 
Aiid  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river.     • 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 

From  the  deep  cool  bed  of  the  river : 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran, 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 

High  on  the  shore  sate  the  great  god  Pan, 

While  turbidly  flowed  the  river ; 
And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god  can, 
With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  patient  reed, 
Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  a  leaf  indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  357 

He  cut  it  short,  did  the  great  god  Pan 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river !), 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of  a  man, 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring, 
And  notched  the  poor  dry  empty  thing 
In  holes,  as  he  sate  by  the  river. 

'This  is  the  way/  laughed  the  great  god  Pan 

(Laughed  while  he  sate  by  the  river), 
'The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  succeed/ 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in  the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Pan ! 

Piercing  sweet  by  the  river ! 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan ! 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot  to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon-fly 
Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Ban, 
To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river, 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man : 

The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and  pain, — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore  again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the  river. 

E.  B.  Browning 

CCCLIV 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — no !  I  do  not  love  thee ! 
And  yet  when  thou  art  absent  I  am  sad ; 

And  envy  even  the  bright  blue  sky  above  thee, 
Whose  quiet  stars  may  see  thee  and  be  glad. 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — yet,  I  know  not  why, 
Whate'er  thou  dost  seems  still  well  done,  to  me : 

And  often  in  my  solitude  I  sigh 
That  those  I  do  love  are  not  more  like  thee  1 


358  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — yet,  when  thou  art  gone, 
I  hate  the  sound  (though  those  who  speak  be  dear) 

Which  breaks  the  lingering  echo  of  the  tone 
Thy  voice  of  music  leaves  upon  my  ear. 

I  do  not  love  thee ! — yet  thy  speaking  eyes, 
With  their  deep,  bright,  and  most  expressive  blue, 

Between  me  and  the  midnight  heaven  arise, 
Of tener  than  any  eyes  I  ever  knew. 


I  know  I  do  not  love  thee !  yet,  alas ! 
Others  will  scarcely  trust  my  candid  heart ; 

And  oft  I  catch  them  smiling  as  they  pass, 
Because  they  see  me  gazing  where  thou  art. 

Carolina  E.  S.  Norton 


CCCLV 

RUBAIYAT  OF  OMAR  KHAYYAM  OF 
NAISHAPUR 


Awake  !  for  Morning  in  the  Bowl  of  Night 

Has  flung  the  Stone  that  puts  the  Stars  to  Flight : 

And  Lo !  the  Hunter  of  the  East  has  caught 
The  Sultan's  Turret  in  a  Noose  of  Light. 

2 

Dreaming  when  Dawn's  Left  Hand  was  in  the  Sky 
I  heard  a  Voice  within  the  Tavern  cry, 

'  Awake,  my  Little  ones,  and  fill  the  Cup 
'  Before  Life's  Liquor  in  its  Cup  be  dry.' 

3 

And,  as  the  Cock  crew,  those  who  stood  before 
The  Tavern  shouted— ' Open  then  the  Door! 

1  You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to  stay, 
'And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more.' 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  359 

4 

Come,  fill  the  Cup,  and  in  the  Fire  of  Spring 
The  Winter  Garment  of  Repentance  fling  : 

The  Bird  of  Time  has  but  a  little  way 
To  fly— and  Lo !  the  Bird  is  on  the  Wing. 

5 

And  look — a  thousand  Blossoms  with  the  Day 
Woke — and  a  thousand  scatter'd  into  Clay : 

And  this  first  Summer  Month  that  brings  the  Rose 
Shall  take  Jamshyd  and  Kaikobad  away. 

6 

With  me  along  some  Strip  of  Herbage  strown, 
That  just  divides  the  desert  from  the  sown, 

Where  name  of  Slave  and  Sultan  scarce  is  known, 
And  pity  Sultdn  Mahmud  on  his  Throne. 

7 

Here  with  a  Loaf  of  Bread  beneath  the  Bough, 
A  Flask  of  Wine,  a  Book  of  Verse— and  Thou 

Beside  me  singing  in  the  Wilderness — 
And  Wilderness  is  Paradise  enow. 


*  How  sweet  is  mortal  Sovranty ! ' — think  some : 
Others — '  How  blest  the  Paradise  to  come ! ' 

Ah,  take  the  Cash  in  hand  and  waive  the  Rest; 
Oh,  the  brave  Music  of  a  distant  Drum ! 

9 

Look  to  the  Rose  that  blows  about  us  — 'Lo, 
'Laughing/  she  says,  'into  the  World  I  blow : 

'  At  once  the  silken  Tassel  of  my  Purse 
'Tear,  and  its  Treasure  on  the  Garden  throw.' 


The  Worldly  Hope  men  set  their  Hearts  upon 
Turns  Ashes — or  it  prospers ;  and  anon, 

Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face 
Lighting  a  little  Hour  or  two — is  gone. 


360  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 


And  those  who  husbanded  the  Golden  Grain, 
And  those  who  flung  it  to  the  Winds  like  Rain, 

Alike  to  no  such  aureate  Earth  are  turn'd 
As,  buried  once,  Men  want  dug  up  again. 

12 

Think,  in  this  batter'd  Caravanserai 
Whose  Doorways  are  alternate  Night  and  Day, 

How  Sultan  after  Sultan  with  his  Pomp 
Abode  his  Hour  or  two,  and  went  his  way. 

13 

They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep : 

And  Bahrain,  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  Head,  and  he  lies  fast  asleep. 

H 

I  sometimes  think  that  never  blows  so  red 
The  Rose  as  where  some  buried  Caesar  bled ; 

That  every  Hyacinth  the  Garden  wears 
Dropt  in  its  Lap  from  some  once  lovely  Head. 

15 

And  this  delightful  Herb  whose  tender  Green 
Fledges  the  River's  Lip  on  which  we  lean — 
Ah,  lean  upon  it  lightly !  for  who  knows 
From  what  once  lovely  Lip  it  springs  unseen ! 

16 

Ah,  my  Beloved,  fill  the  Cup  that  clears 
TO-DAY  of  past  Regrets  and  future  Fears — 
To-morrow  ? — Why,  To-morrow  I  may  be 
Myself  with  Yesterday's  Sev'n  Thousand  Years. 

17 

Lo !  some  we  loved,  the  loveliest  and  best 
That  Time  and  Fate  of  all  their  Vintage  prest, 

Have  drunk  their  Cup  a  Round  or  tw»  before, 
And  one  by  one  crept  silently  to  Rest. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  361 

18 

And  we,  that  now  make  merry  in  the  Room 
They  left,  and  Summer  dresses  in  new  Bloom, 

Ourselves  must  we  beneath  the  Couch  of  Earth 
Descend,  ourselves  to  make  a  Couch — for  whom? 

iQ 

Ah,  make  the  most  of  what  we  yet  may  spend, 
Before  we  too  into  the  Dust  descend ; 

Dust  into  Dust,  and  under  Dust,  to  lie, 
Sans  Wine,  sans  Song,  sans  Singer,  and — sans  End ! 


Oh,  come  with  old  Khayyam,  and  leave  the  Wise 
To  talk ;  one  thing  is  certain,  that  Life  flies ; 
One  thing  is  certain,  and  the  Rest  is  Lies ; 
The  Flower  that  once  has  blown  for  ever  dies. 


Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  Argument 

About  it  and  about :  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  Door  as  in  I  went. 

22 

With  them  the  Seed  of  Wisdom  did  I  sow, 
And  with  my  own  hand  labour'd  it  to  grow : 

And  this  was  all  the  Harvest  that  I  reap'd— 
'I  came  like  Water,  and  like  Wind  I  go.' 

23 

Into  this  Universe,  and  why  not  knowing, 
Nor  whence,  like  Water  willy-nilly  flowing : 
And  out  of  it,  as  Wind  along  the  Waste, 
I  know  not  whither,  willy-nilly  blowing* 

24 

What,  without  asking,  hither  hurried  whence  ? 
And,  without  asking,  whither  hurried  hence ! 

Another  and  another  Cup  to  drown 
The  Memory  of  this  Impertinence ! 


362  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

25 

Up  from  Earth's  Centre,  through  the  Seventh  Gate 
I' rose,  and  on  the  Throne  of  Saturn  sate, 

And  many  Knots  unravel'd  by  the  Road ; 
But  not  the  Knot  of  Human  Death  and  Fate. 

26 

There  was  a  Door  to  which  I  found  no  Key : 
There  was  a  Veil  past  which  I  could  not  see : 

Some  little  Talk  awhile  of  ME  and  THEE 
There  seem'd — and  then  no  more  of  THEE  and  ME. 

27 

Ah,  fill  the  Cup : — what  boots  it  to  repeat 
How  Time  is  slipping  underneath  our  Feet : 

Unborn  TO-MORROW  and  dead  YESTERDAY, 
Why  fret  about  them  if  TO-DAY  be  sweet ! 

28 

One  Moment  in  Annihilation's  Waste, 
One  Moment,  of  the  Well  of  Life  to  taste— 

The  Stars  are  setting  and  the  Caravan 
Starts  for  the  Dawn  of  Nothing — Oh,  make  haste ! 

29 

While  the  Rose  blows  along  the  River  Brink, 
With  old  Khayyam  the  Ruby  Vintage  drink  : 

And  when  the  Angel  with  his  darker  Draught 
Draws  up  to  Thee — take  that,  and  do  not  shrink. 

30 

The  Moving  Finger  writes ;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on :  nor  all  thy  Piety  nor  Wit 

Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  Line, 
Nor  all  thy  Tears  wash  out  a  Word  of  it. 

3i 

And  that  inverted  Bowl  we  call  The  Sky, 
Whereunder  crawling  coop't  we  live  and  die, 

Lift  not  thy  hands  to  //  for  help — for  It 
Rolls  impotently  on  as  Thou  or  I. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  363 

32 

And  this  I  know :  whether  the  one  True  Light 
Kindle  to  Love,  or  Wrath-consume  me  quite, 
One  glimpse  of  It  within  the  Tavern  caught 
Better  than  in  the  Temple  lost  outright. 

33 

Oh,  Thou,  who  didst  with  Pitfall  and  with  Gin 
Beset  the  Road  I  was  to  wander  in, 

Thou  wilt  not  with  Predestination  round 
Enmesh  me,  and  impute  my  Fall  to  Sin  ? 

34 

Oh,  Thou,  who  Man  of  baser  Earth  didst  make, 
And  who  with  Eden  didst  devise  the  Snake ; 
For  all  the  Sin  wherewith  the  Face  of  Man 
Is  blacken'd,  Man's  Forgiveness  give — and  take! 

35 

Listen  again.     One  evening  at  the  Close 
Of  Ramazan,  ere  the  better  Moon  arose, 
In  that  old  Potter's  Shop  I  stood  alone 
With  the  clay  Population  round  in  Rows. 

36 

And,  strange  to  tell,  among  that  Earthen  Lot 
Some  could  articulate,  while  others  not : 

And  suddenly  one  more  impatient  cried — 
'Who  is  the  Potter,  pray,  and  who  the  Pot?' 

37 

Then  said  another — '  Surely  not  in  vain 
'  My  Substance  from  the  common  Earth  was  ta'en, 

'That  He  who  subtly  wrought  me  into  Shape 
*  Should  stamp  me  back  to  common  Earth  again.' 

38 

And  much  as  Wine  has  play'd  the  Infidel, 
And  robb'd  me  of  my  Robe  of  Honour — well, 

I  often  wonder  what  the  Vintners  buy 
One-half  so  precious  as  the  Goods  they  sell. 


364  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

39 

Alas,  that  Spring  should  vanish  with  the  Rose  ! 
That    Youth's    sweet-scented    Manuscript    should 

close  ! 

The  Nightingale  that  in  the  Branches  sang, 
Ah,  whence,  and  whither  flown  again,  who  knows  ! 

40 

Ah,  Love  !  could  thou  and  I  with  Fate  conspire 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things  entire, 
Would  not  we  shatter  it  to  bits  —  and  then 
Re-mould  it  nearer  to  the  Heart's  Desire  ! 


And  when  Thyself  with  shining  Foot  shall  pass 
Among  the  Guests  Star-scatter'd  on  the  Grass, 

And  in  thy  joyous  Errand  reach  the  Spot 
Where  I  made  one  —  turn  down  an  empty  Glass  ! 

E.  FitzGerald 

CCCLVI 

THE  MEN  OF  OLD 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now, 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow  : 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  Time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

Still  it  is  true,  and  over  true, 

That  I  delight  to  close 
This  book  of  life  self-  wise  and  new, 

And  let  my  thoughts  repose 
On  all  that  humble  happiness, 

The  world  has  since  forgone,  — 
The  daylight  of  contentedness 

That  on  those  faces  shone  ! 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  365 

With  rights,  tho'  not  too  closely  scanned, 

Enjoyed,  as  far  as  known, — 
With  will  by  no  reverse  unmanned, — 

With  pulse  of  even  tone, — 
They  from  to-day  and  from  to-night 

Expected  nothing  more, 
Than  yesterday  and  yesternight 

Had  proffered  them  before. 

To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run ; 
A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 

They  little  cared  to  know, 
Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  Virtue's  diadem 

Puts  on  and  proudly  wears, 
Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them, 

Like  instincts,  unawares : 
Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 

With  tasks  of  every  day, 
They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 

As  noble  boys  at  play. — 

And  what  if  Nature's  fearful  wound 

They  did  not  probe  and  bare, 
For  that  their  spirits  never  swooned 

To  watch  the  misery  there, — 
For  that  their  love  but  flowed  more  fast, 

Their  charities  more  free, 
Not  conscious  what  mere  drops  they  cast 

Into  the  evil  sea. 

A  man's  best  things  are  nearest  him, 

Lie  close  about  his  feet, 
It  is  the  distant  and  the  dim 

That  we  are  sick  to  greet : 


366  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

For  flowers  that  grow  our  hands  beneath 

We  struggle  and  aspire, — 
Our  hearts  must  die,  except  they  breathe 

The  air  of  fresh  Desire. 

Yet,  Brothers,  who  up  Reason's  hill    I 

Advance  with  hopeful  cheer, — 
O !  loiter  not,  those  heights  are  chill, 

As  chill  as  they  are  clear ; 
And  still  restrain  your  haughty  gaze, 

The  loftier  that  ye  go, 
Remembering  distance  leaves  a  haze 

On  all  that  lies  below. 

Lord  Houghton 

CCCLVII 
THE  MILLER'S  DAUGHTER 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter, 

And  she  is  grown  so  dear,  so  dear, 

That  I  would  be  the  jewel 
That  trembles  at  her  ear : 

For  hid  in  ringlets  day  and  night, 

I'd  touch  her  neck  so  warm  and  white. 

And  I  would  be  the  girdle 

About  her  dainty  dainty  waist, 

And  her  heart  would  beat  against  me 
In  sorrow  and  in  rest : 

And  I  should  know  if  it  beat  right, 

I'd  clasp  it  round  so  close  and  tight. 

And  I  would  be  the  necklace, 
And  all  day  long  to  fall  and  rise 

Upon  her  balmy  bosom, 

With  her  laughter  'or  her  sighs, 

And  I  would  lie  so  light,  so  light, 

I  scarce  should  be  unclasp'd  at  night. 

Lord  Tennyson 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  367 

CCCLVIII 

BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  thy  cold  grey  stones,  O  Sea ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 
That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill ; 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

Lord  Tennyson 

CCCLDC 

THE  BROOK 

• 

I  come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern, 

I  make  a  sudden  sally 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

By  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 

Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 
By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 

And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Till  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


368  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

I  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

I  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

And  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow-weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 
With  here  a  blossom  sailing 

And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 
And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  369 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

Lord  Tennyson 


As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went, 

And  pluck'd  the  ripen'd  ears, 
We  fell  out,  my  wife  and  I, 
We  fell  out,  I  know  not  why, 

And  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

And  blessings  on  the  falling  out 

That  all  the  more  endears, 
When  we  fall  out  with  those  we  love 

And  kiss  again  with  tears ! 

For  when  we  came  where  lies  the  child 

We  lost  in  other  years, 
There  above  the  little  grave, 
O  there  above  the  little  grave, 

We  kiss'd  again  with  tears. 

Lord  Tennyson 


The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story : 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes, 
And  the  wild  ca£a_rq£l  leaps  in  glory. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying 

2B 


370  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

O  hark,  O  hear !  how  thin  and  clear, 
And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going ! 
O  sweet  and  far  from  cliff  and  scar 

The  horns  of  Elfland  faintly  blowing ! 
Blow,  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying : 
Blow,  bugle ;  answer,  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

O  love,  they  die  in  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill  or  field  or  river : 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  grow  for  ever  and  for  ever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying, 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer,  dying,  dying  dying. 

Lord  Tennyson 

CCCLXII 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean, ' 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  in  the  heart,  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  Autumn-fields, 
And  thinking  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Fresh  as  the  first  beam  glittering  on  a  sail, 
That  brings  our  friends  up  from  the  underworld, 
Sad  as  the  last  which  reddens  over  one 
That  sinks  with  all  we  love  below  the  verge ; 
So  sad,  so  fresh,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Ah,  sad  and  strange  as  in  dark  summer  dawns 
The  earliest  pipe  of  half-awaken'd  birds 
To  dying  ears,  when  unto  dying  eyes 
The  casement  slowly  grows  a  glimmering  square ; 
So  sad,  so  strange,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Dear  as  remember'd  kisses  after  death, 
And  sweet  as  those  by  hopeless  fancy  feign'd 
On  lips  that  are  for  others ;  deep  as  love, 
Deep  as  first  love,  and  wild  with  all  regret ; 
O  Death  in  Life,  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

Lord  Tennyson 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  371 

CCCLXIII 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her  what  I  tell  to  thee. 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  if  I  could  follow,  and  light 
Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why  lingereth  she  to  clothe  her  heart  with  love, 
Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green  ? 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown : 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her  mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 

Lord  Tennyson 

cccxxrv 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 


372  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new, 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow : 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 

Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 
For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more ; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause,  * 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 
The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times ; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes, 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 

Lord  Tennyson 

CCCLXV 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 

For  the  black  bat,  night,  has  flown, 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud, 
I  am  here  at  the  gate  alone ; 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  373 

,And  the  woodbine  spices  are  wafted  abroad, 
And  the  musk  of  the  roses  blown. 

For  a  breeze  of  morning  moves, 

And  the  planet  of  Love  is  on  high, 
Beginning  to  faint  in  the  light  that  she  loves 

On  a  bed  of  daffodil  sky, 
To  faint  in  the  light  of  the  sun  she  loves, 

To  faint  in  his  light,  and  to  die. 

All  night  have  the  roses  heard 

The  flute,  violin,  bassoon ; 
All  night  has  the  casement  jessamine  stirr'd 

To  the  dancers  dancing  in  tune ; 
Till  a  silence  fell  with  the  waking  bird, 

And  a  hush  with  the  setting  moon. 

I  said  to  the  lily,  'There  is  but  one 

With  whom  she  has  heart  to  be  gay. 
When  will  the  dancers  leave  her  alone  ? 

She  is  weary  of  dance  and  play.' 
Now  half  to  the  setting  moon  are  gone, 

And  half  to  the  rising  day ; 
Low  on  the  sand  and  loud  on  the  stone 

The  last  wheel  echoes  away. 

I  said  to  the  rose,  'The  brief  night  goes 

In  babble  and  revel  and  wine. 
O  young  lord-lover,  what  sighs  are  those, 

For  one  that  will  never  be  thine  ? 
But  mine,  but  mine,'  so  I  sware  to  the  rose, 

'For  ever  and  ever,  mine.' 

And  the  soul  of  the  rose  went  into  my  blood, 

As  the  music  clash'd  in  the  hall ; 
And  along  by  the  garden  lake  I  stood, 

For  I  heard  your  rivulet  fall 
From  the  lake  to  the  meadow  and  on  to  the  wood, 

Our  wood,  that  is  dearer  than  all ; 


374  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

From  the  meadow  your  walks  have  left  so  sweet 
That  whenever  a  March-wind  sighs 

He  sets  the  jewel-print  of  your  feet 
In  violets  blue  as  your  eyes, 

To  the  woody  hollows  in  which  we  meet 
And  the  valleys  of  Paradise. 

The  slender  acacia  would  not  shake 

One  long  milk-bloom  on  the  tree ; 
The  white  lake-blossom  fell  into  the  lake, 

As  the  pimpernel  dozed  on  the  lea ; 
But  the  rose  was  awake  all  night  for  your  sake, 

Knowing  your  promise  to  me ; 
The  lilies  and  roses  were  all  awake, 

They  sigh'd  for  the  dawn  and  thee. ' 

Queen  rose  of  the  rosebud  garden  of  girls, 
Come  hither,  the  dances  are  done, 

In  gloss  of  satin  and  glimmer  of  pearls, 
Queen  lily  and  rose  in  one ; 

Shine  out,  little  head,  sunning  over  with  curls, 
To  the  flowers,  and  be  their  sun. 

There  has  fallen  a  spendid  tear 

From  the  passion-flower  at  the  gate. 
She  is  coming,  my  dove,  my  dear ; 

She  is  coming,  my  life,  my  fate ; 
The  red  rose  cries,  'She  is  near,  she  is  near'; 

And  the  white  rose  weeps,  '  She  is  late ' ; 
The  larkspur  listens,  '  I  hear,  I  hear  ' ; 

And  the  lily  whispers,  '  I  wait. ' 

She  is  coming,  my  own,  my  sweet ; 

Were  it  ever  so  airy  a  tread, 
My  heart  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Were  it  earth  in  an  earthy  bed ; 
My  dust  would  hear  her  and  beat, 

Had  I  lain  for  a  century  dead ; 
Would  start  and  tremble  under  her  feet, 

And  blossom  in  purple  and  red. 

Lord  Tennyson 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  375 

CCCLXVI 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours, 
Faith  and  unfaith  can  ne'er  be  equal  powers : 
Unfaith  in  aught  is  want  of  faith  in  all. 

It  is  the  little  rift  within  the  lute, 
That  by  and  by  will  make  the  music  mute, 
And  ever  widening  slowly  silence  all. 

The  little  rift  within  the  lover's  lute, 
Or  little  pitted  speck  in  garner 'd  fruit, 
That  rotting  inward  slowly  moulders  all. 

It  is  not  worth  the  keeping :  let  it  go  : 
But  shall  it  ?  answer,  darling,  answer,  no. 
And  trust  me  not  at  all  or  all  in  all. 

Lord  Tennyson 


The  year  's  at  the  spring, 
And  day  's  at  the  morn ; 
Morning  's  at  seven ; 
The  hill-side  's  dew-pearled ; 

The  lark  's  on  the  wing ; 
The  snail  's  on  the  thorn : 
God  's  in  his  heaven — 
All  's  right  with  the  world ! 

R.  Browning 

CCCLXVIII 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me ! 

When — where — 
How — can  this  arm  establish  her  above  me, 

If  fortune  fixed  her  as  my  lady  there, 
There  already,  to  eternally  reprove  me  ? 

('  Hist ! ' — said  Kate  the  queen ; 
But '  Oh ' — cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 


376  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

'  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
1  Crumbling  your  hounds  their  messes ! ') 

Is  she  wronged  ? — To  the  rescue  of  her  honour, 

My  heart ! 
Is  she  poor  ? — What  costs  it  to  be  styled  a  donor  ? 

Merely  an  earth  to  cleave,  a  sea  to  part. 
But  that  fortune  should  have  thrust  all  this  upon 

her! 

('  Nay,  list ! ' — bade  Kate  the  queen ; 
And  still  cried  the  maiden,  binding  her  tresses, 

'  'Tis  only  a  page  that  carols  unseen, 
*  Fitting  your  hawks  their  jesses ! ') 

R.  Browning 

CCCLXIX 

Day. 

Faster  and  more  fast, 
O'er  night's  brim,  day  boils  at  last : 
Boils,  pure  gold,  o'er  the  cloud-cup's  brim 
Where  spurting  and  suppressed  it  lay ; 
For  not  a  froth-flake  touched  the  rim 
Of  yonder  gap  in  the  solid  gray 
Of  the  eastern  cloud,  an  hour  away ; 
But  forth  one  wavelet,  then  another,  curled, 
Till  the  whole  sunrise,  not  to  be  suppressed, 
Rose,  reddened,  and  its  seething  breast 
Flickered  in  bounds,  grew  gold,  then  overflowed  the 
world. 

R.  Browning 

CCCLXX 

THE  LOST  LEADER 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 
Just  for  a  riband  to  stick  in  his  coat — 

Found  the  one  gift  of  which  fortune  bereft  us, 
Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote ; 

They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 
So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed : 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  377 

How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags — were    they    purple,  his    heart  had  been 

proud ! 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honoured 

him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  .his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakespeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us, — they  watch  from 

their  graves ! 

He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen, 
He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 


We  shall  march  prospering, — not   thro'   his  pres- 
ence; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us, — not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done, — while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 
Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire  : 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  record  one  lost  soul  more, 
One    task   more    declined,    one    more    footpath 

untrod, 
One  more  devils'-triumph  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 
Life's  night  begins :  let  him  never  come  back  to.  us ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part — the   glimmer   of  twi- 
light, 

Never  glad  confident  morning  again ! 
Best  fight    on  well,  for    we    taught    him, — strike 

gallantly, 

Menace  our  heart  ere  we  master  his  own ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 
Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne ! 

R.  Browning 


378  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

CCCLXXI 

HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England  now  that  April's  there. 
And  whoever  wakes  in  England  sees,  some  morn- 
ing, unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brushwood  sheaf 
Round  the  elm-tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 
While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 
In  England — now ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossomed  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 

Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms    and    dewdrops — at    the    bent    spray's 

edge— 
That's  the  wise  thrush ;  he  sings  each  song  twice 

over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 

The  first  fine  careless  rapture ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower ! 

R.  Browning 

CCCLXXII 
HOME-THOUGHTS,  FROM   THE  SEA 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincejnt  to  the  North- West 

died  away ; 
Sunset  ran,   one  glorious  blood-red,   reeking  into 

Cadiz  Bay; 
Bluish  mid  the  burning  water,  full  in  face  Trafalgar 

lay; 
In    the    dimmest    North-East    distance,    dawned 

Gibraltar  grand  and  grey ; 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  379 

*  Here  and  here  did  England  help  me :   how  can  I 

help  England  ? ' — say, 
Whoso  turns  as  I,  this  evening,  turn  to  God  to 

praise  and  pray, 

While  Jove's  planet  rises  yonder,  silent  over  Africa. 

R.  Browning 

CCCLXXIII 

MISCONCEPTIONS 

This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to, 

Making  it  blossom  with  pleasure, 

Ere  the  high  tree-top  she  sprung  to, 

Fit  for  her  nest  and  her  treasure. 

Oh,  what  a  hope  beyond  measure 

Was  the  poor  spray's,  which  the  flying  feet  hung 

to,— 
So  to  be  singled  out,  built  in,  and  sung  to ! 

This  is  a  heart  the  Queen  leant  on, 

Thrilled  in  a  minute  erratic, 
Ere  the  true  bosom  she  bent  on, 
Meet  for  love's  regal  dalmatic. 
Oh,  what  a  fancy  ecstatic 

Was  the  poor  heart's,  ere  the  wanderer  went  on — 
Love  to  be  saved  for  it,  proffered  to,  spent  on ! 

L  R.  Browning 

CCCLXXIV 

A   WOMAN'S  LAST  WORD 

Let's  contend  no  more,  Love, 

Strive  nor  weep : 
All  be  as  before,  Love, 

— Only  sleep ! 

What  so  wild  as  words  are  ? 

I  and  thou 
In  debate,  as  birds  are, 

Hawk  on  bough! 


380  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

See  the  creature  stalking 

While  we  speak ! 
Hush  and  hide  the  talking, 

Cheek  on  cheek ! 

What  so  false  as  truth  is, 

False  to  thee? 
Where  the  serpent's  tooth  is 

Shun  the  tree — 

Where  the  apple  reddens 

Never  pry — 
Lest  we  lose  our  Edens, 

Eve  and  I. 

Be  a  god  and  hold  me 

With  a  charm ! 
Be  a  man  and  fold  me 

With  thine  arm ! 

Teach  me,  only  teach,  Love ! 

As  I  ought 
I  will  speak  thy  speech,  Love, 

Think  thy  thought — 

Meet,  if  thou  require  it, 

Both  demands, 
Laying  flesh  and  spirit 

In  thy  hands. 

That  shall  be  to-morrow 

Not  to-night : 
I  must  bury  sorrow 

Out  of  sight : 

— Must  a  little  weep,  Love, 

(Foolish  me !) 
And  so  fall  asleep,  Love, 

Loved  by  thee. 

R.  Browning 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  381 

CCCLXXV 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

i 

Grow  old  along  with  me ! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith  'A  whole  I  planned, 
Youth  shows  but  half ;   trust  God :   see  all,  nor  be 
afraid ! ' 

2 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 
Youth  sighed  *  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall  ? ' 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned  '  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  tran- 
scends them  all ! ' 

3 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate :  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finished  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

4 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 
Were  man  but  formed  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 
Such  feasting  ended,  then 
As  sure  an  end  to  men ; 

Irks   care   the   crop-full   bird?     Frets   doubt   the 
maw-crammed  beast? 

5 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 


382  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 

Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must 
believe. 


Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang;   dare,  never  grudge 
the  throe  ! 

7 

For  thence,  —  a  paradox 
Which  comforts  while  it  mocks,  — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail  : 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i* 
the  scale. 

8 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  hath  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play? 

To  man,  propose  this  test  — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 

9 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use  : 
I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 
Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 
Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  ; 
Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  'How  good  to  live 
and  learn  '  ? 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  383 


Not  once  beat  '  Praise  be  Thine ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  Love  perfect  too : 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man ! 

Maker,    remake,    complete, — I    trust   what   Thou 
shalt  do!' 


For  pleasant  is  this  flesh ; 
Our  soul  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pulled  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest : 
Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 
To  match  those  manifold 

'  Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain   most,   as  we  did 
best! 

12 

Let  us  not  always  say 
'Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I   strove,    made   head,    gained   ground    upon   the 

whole ! ' 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 
Let  us  cry  '  All  go'od  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh 
helps  soul ! ' 

13 

Therefore  I  summon  age 
To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reached  its  term : 
Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 
A  man,  for  ay  removed 

From  the  developed  brute ;    a  God  though  in  the 
germ. 

14 

And  I  shall  thereupon 
Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new : 


384  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Fearless  and  unperplexed, 
When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 

15 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

16 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  grey : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots— 'Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth :  here  dies  another  day. ' 

17 

So,  still  within  this  life, 
Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 
'This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 
That  acquiescence  vain : 

The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the 
Past.' 

18 

For  more  is  not  reserved 
To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day : 
Here,  work  enough  to  watch 
The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,  tricks  of  the  tool's  true 
play. 

iQ 

As  it  was  better,  youth 
Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 
Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made ; 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  385 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 
From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou  waitedst  age;    wait  death  nor  be 
afraid ! 


Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 
Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 

From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel 
alone. 


Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Severed  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraigned, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdained, 
Right?    Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace 
at  last ! 


Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me :  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that :  whom  shall  my  soul 
believe  ? 

23 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 
Called  'work,'  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price; 
O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a 
trice: 

2C 


386  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

24 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 
So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the  man's 
amount : 

25 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped; 
All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me. 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  -wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped. 

26 

Aye,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor !  and  feel 

Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay,  — 
Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
'  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change ;   the  Past  gone,  seize 
to-day ! ' 

27 

Fool !     All  that  is,  at  all, 
Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 

Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure : 
What  entered  into  thee, 
That  was,  is,  and  shall  be : 

Time's  wheel  runs  back  or  stops;   Potter  and  clay 
endure. 

28 

He  fixed  thee  mid  this  dance 
Of  plastic  circumstance, 

This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest : 
Machinery  just  meant  i 
To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impressed. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  387 

29 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim,  , 

Skull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 


Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  aglow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,  what  needst  thou 
with  earth's  wheel  ? 


But  I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I,  —  to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 

Bound  dizzily,  —  mistake  my  end,    to    slake    Thy 
thirst  : 

32 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  ! 

Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the 
aim! 

My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 

Perfect  the  cup  as  planned  ! 
Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the 

^mel  R.  Browning 

CCCLXXVI 

TUBAL  CAIN 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 

In  the  days  when  Earth  was  young  ; 

2C    2 


388  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

By  the  fierce  red  light  of  his  furnace  bright 

The  strokes  of  his  hammer  rung ; 
And  he  lifted  high  his  brawny  hand 

On  the  iron  glowing  clear, 
Till  the  sparks  rushed  out  in  scarlet  showers, 

As  he  fashioned  the  sword  and  spear. 
And  he  sang — '  Hurra  for  my  handiwork ! 

Hurra  for  the  spear  and  sword ! 
Hurra  for  the  hand  that  shall  wield  them  well, 

For  he  shall  be  king  and  lord ! ' 

To  Tubal  Cain  came  many  a  one, 

As  he  wrought  by  his  roaring  fire, 
And  each  one  prayed  for  a  strong  steel  blade 

As  the  crown  of  his  desire : 
And  he  made  them  weapons  sharp  and  strong, 

Till  they  shouted  loud  for  glee, 
And  gave  him  gifts  of  pearl  and'  gold, 

And  spoils  of  the  forest  free. 
And  they  sang — '  Hurra  for  Tubal  Cain, 

Who  hath  given  us  strength  anew ! 
Hurra  for  the  smith,  hurra  for  the  fire, 

And  hurra  for  the  metal  true ! ' 

But  a  sudden  change  came  o'er  his  heart, 

Ere  the  setting  of  the  sun, 
And  Tubal  Cain  was  filled  with  pain 

For  the  evil  he  had  done ; 
He  saw  that  men,  with  rage  and  hate, 

Made  war  upon  their  kind, 
That  the  land  was  red  with  the  blood  they  shed 

In  their  lust  for  carnage,  blind. 
And  he  said — 'Alas !  that  ever  I  made, 

Or  that  skill  of  mine  should  plan, 
The  spear  and  the  sword  for  men  whose  joy 

Is  to  slay  their  fellow-man.' 

And  for  many  a  day  old  Tubal  Cain 
Sat  brooding  o'er  his  woe ; 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  389 

And  his  hand  forbore  to  smite  the  ore, 

And  his  furnace  smouldered  low. 
But  he  rose  at  last  with  a  cheerful  face, 

And  a  bright  courageous  eye, 
And  bared  his  strong  right  arm  for  work, 

While  the  quick  flames  mounted  high. 
And  he  sang — '  Hurra  for  my  handicraft ! ' 

And  the  red  sparks  lit  the  air ; 
1  Not  alone  for  the  blade  was  the  bright  steel  made,' 

And  he  fashioned  the  first  ploughshare. 


And  men,  taught  wisdom  from  the  past, 

In  friendship  joined  their  hands, 
Hung  the  sword  in  the  hall,  the  spear  on  the  wall, 

And  ploughed  the  willing  lands ; 
And  sang — 'Hurra  for  Tubal  Cain  ! 

Our  stanch  good  friend  is  he ; 
And  for  the  ploughshare  and  the  plough 

To  him  our  praise  shall  be. 
But  while  oppression  lifts  its  head, 

Or  a  tyrant  would  be  lord, 
Though  we  may  thank  him  for  the  Plough, 

We'll  not  forget  the  Sword !' 

C.  Mackay 

CCCLXXVII 
QUA   CURSUM   VENTUS 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day 
Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried ; 


When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side : 


3QO  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 
Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared ! 

To  veer,  how  vain !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides — 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze !  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last. 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas ! 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there ! 

A.  H.  Clough 

CCCLXXVIII 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go  ? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

On  sunny  noons  upon  the  deck's  smooth  face, 
Linked  arm  in  arm,  how  pleasant  here  to  pace ; 
Or,  o'er  the  stern  reclining,  watch  below 
The  foaming  wake  far  widening  as  we  go. 

On  stormy  nights  when  wild  north- westers  rave, 
How  proud  a  thing  to  fight  with  wind  and  wave ! 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  391 

The  dripping  sailor  on  the  reeling  mast 
Exults  to  bear,  and  scorns  to  wish  it  past. 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go? 
Far,  far  ahead,  is  all  her  seamen  know. 
And  where  the  land  she  travels  from  ?     Away, 
Far,  far  behind,  is  all  that  they  can  say. 

A.  H.  Clough 

CCCLXXIX 
<0  MAY  I  JOIN   THE  CHOIR  INVISIBLE' 

Longum  illud  tempus,  quum  non  ero,  magis  me 
mo  vet,  quam  hoc  exiguum. — CICERO,  ad  Alt.  xii. 
18. 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 

Of  those  immortal  dead  who  live  again 

In  minds  made  better  by  their  presence  :  live 

In  pulses  stirred  to  generosity, 

In  deeds  of  daring  rectitude,  in  scorn 

For  miserable  aims  that  end  with  self, 

In  thoughts  sublime  that  pierce  the  night  like  stars, 

And  with  their  mild  persistence  urge  man's  search 

.To  vaster  issues. 

So  to  live  is  heaven : 
To  make  undying  music  in  the  world, 
Breathing  as  beauteous  order  that  controls 
With  growing  sway  the  growing  life  of  man. 
So  we  inherit  that  sweet  purity 
For  which  we  struggled,  failed,  and  agonized 
With  widening  retrospect  that  bred  despair. 
Rebellious  flesh  that  would  not  be  subdued, 
A  vicious  parent  shaming  still  its  child 
Poor  anxious  penitence,  is  quick  dissolved ; 
Its  discords,  quenched  by  meeting  harmonies, 
Die  in  the  large  and  charitable  air. 
And  all  our  rarer,  better,  truer  self, 
That  sobbed  religiously  in  yearning  song, 
That  watched  to  ease  the  burthen  of  the  world, 


392  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Laboriously  tracing  what  must  be, 

And  what  may  yet  be  better — saw  within 

A  worthier  image  for  the  sanctuary, 

And  shaped  it  forth  before  the  multitude 

Divinely  human,  raising  worship  so 

To  higher  reverence  more  mixed  with  love — 

That  better  self  shall  live  till  human  Time 

Shall  fold  its  eyelids,  and  the  human  sky 

Be  gathered  like  a  scroll  within  the  tomb 

Unread  for  ever. 

This  is  life  to  come, 

Which  martyred  men  have  made  more  glorious 
For  us  who  strive  to  follow.     May  I  reach 
That  purest  heaven,  be  to  other  souls 
The  cup  of  strength  in  some  great  agony, 
Enkindle  generous  ardour,  feed  pure  love, 
Beget  the  smiles  that  have  no  cruelty — 
Be  the  sweet  presence  of  a  good  diffused, 
And  in  diffusion  ever  more  intense. 
So  shall  I  join  the  choir  invisible 
Whose  music  is  the  gladness  of  the  world. 

George  Eliot 

CCCLXXX 
AIRLY  BEACON 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon ; 

Oh  the  pleasant  sight  to  see 
Shires  and  towns  from  Airly  Beacon, 

While  my  love  climbed  up  to  me ! 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon ; 

Oh  the  happy  hours  we  lay 
Deep  in  fern  on  Airly  Beacon, 

Courting  through  the  summer's  day ! 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon ; 

Oh  the  weary  haunt  for  me, 
All  alone  on  Airly  Beacon, 

With  his  baby  on  my  knee ! 

C.  Kingsley 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  393 

CCCLXXXI 

THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

*O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee' ; 

The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  with  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  western  tide  crept  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  round  and  round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see. 

The  rolling  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land : 
And  never  home  came  she. 

'  Oh !  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  of  golden  hair, 
A  drowned  maiden's  hair 
Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 
Among  the  stakes  on  Dee.' 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea : 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home 
Across  the  sands  of  Dee. 

C.  Kingsley 

CCCLXXXII 

YOUNG  AND  OLD 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  green ; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen ; 


394  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away ; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down ; 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  spent  and  maimed  among : 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there, 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 

C.  Kingsley 

CCCLXXXIII 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  ON  THE  COAST  OF 
LINCOLNSHIRE  (1571) 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower, 
The  ringers  ran  by  two,  by  three ; 

*  Pull,  if  ye  never  pulled  before ; 

Good  ringers,  pull  your  best,'  quoth  he. 

'  Play  uppe,  play  uppe,  O  Boston  bells ! 

Ply  all  your  changes,  all  your  swells, 
Play  uppe  "The  Brides  of  Enderby."  ' 

Men  say  it  was  a  stolen  tyde — 

The  Lord  that  sent  it,  He  knows  all ; 

But  in  myne  ears  doth  still  abide 
The  message  that  the  bells  let  fall : 

And  there  was  naught  of  strange,  beside 

The  flight  of  mews  and  peewits  pied 

By  millions  crouched  on  the  old  sea  wall. 

I  sat  and  spun  within  the  doore, 

My  thread  brake  off,  I  raised  myne  eyes ; 

The  level  sun,  like  ruddy  ore, 
Lay  sinking  in  the  barren  skies ; 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  395 

And  dark  against  day's  golden  death 
She  moved  where  Lindis  wandereth, 
My  sonne's  faire  wife,  Elizabeth. 

'Cusha !  Cusha  !  Cusha  !'  calling, 
Ere  the  early  dews  were  falling, 
Farre  away  I  heard  her  song, 
'  Cusha !  Cusha  ! '  all  along ; 
Where  the  reedy  Lindis  floweth, 

Floweth,  floweth, 

From  the  meads  where  m click  groweth 
Faintly  came  her  milking  song. 

'Cusha !  Cusha !  Cusha !'  calling, 
1  For  the  dews  will  soone  be  falling ; 
Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Quit  the  stalks  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

From  the  clovers  lift  your  head ; 
Come  uppe  Whitefoot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot, 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  rise  and  follow, 

Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed.' 

If  it  be  long,  aye,  long  ago, 

When  I  beginne  to  think  howe  long, 

Againe  I  hear  the  Lindis  flow, 

Swift  as  an  arrowe,  sharp  and  strong ; 

And  all  the  aire,  it  seemeth  mee, 

Bin  full  of  floating  bells  (sayth  shee), 

That  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby. 

Alle  fresh  the  level  pasture  lay, 

And  not  a  shadowe  mote  be  scene, 
Save  where  full  fyve  good  miles  away 

The  steeple  towered  from  out  the  greene ; 


396  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

And  lo  !  the  great  bell  farre  and  wide 
Was  heard  in  all  the  country  side 
That  Saturday  at  eventide. 

The  swanherds  where  their  sedges  are 
Moved  on  in  sunset's  golden  breath, 

The  shepherde  lads  I  heard  afarre, 
And  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth; 

Till  floating  o'er  the  grassy  sea 

Came  downe  that  kyndly  message  free,'! 

The  '  Brides  of  Mavis  Enderby.' 

Then  some  looked  uppe  into  the  sky/ 
And  all  along  where  Lindis  flows 

To  where  the  goodly  vessels  lie, 
And  where  the  lordly  steeple  shows. 

They  sayde,  'And  why  should  this  thing  be? 

What  danger  lowers  by  land  or  sea  ? 

They  ring  the  tune  of  Enderby ! 

'  For  evil  news  from  Mablethorpe, 

Of  pyrate  galleys  warping  down ; 
For  shippes  ashore  beyond  the  scorpe, 

They  have  not  spared  to  wake  the  towne : 
But  while  the  west  bin  red  to  see, 
And  storms  be  none,  and  pyrates  flee, 
Why  ring  "The  Brides  of  Enderby"?' 

I  looked  without,  and  lo !  my  sonne 

Came  riding  downe  with  might  and  main : 

He  raised  a  shout  as  he  drew  on, 
Till  all  the  welkin  rang  again, 

'Elizabeth!  Elizabeth!' 

(A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth.) 

'The  olde  sea  wall  (he  cried)  is  downe, 
The  rising  tide  comes  on  apace, 

And  boats  adrift  in  younder  towne 
Go  sailing  uppe  the  market-place.' 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  397 

He  shook  as  one  that  looks  on  death : 

*  God  save  you,  mother ! '  straight  he  saith ; 
'  Where  is  my  wife,  Elizabeth  ? ' 

'  Good  sonne,  where  Lindis  winds  away, 

*  With  her  two  bairns  I  marked  her  long ; 
And  ere  yon  bells  beganne  to  play 

Afar  I  heard  her  milking  song.' 
He  looked  across  the  grassy  lea, 
To  right,  to  left,  'Ho  Enderby !' 
They  rang  'The  Brides  of  Enderby!' 

With  that  he  cried  and  beat  his  breast; 
'    For,  lo !  along  the  river's  bed 
A  mighty  eygre  reared  his  crest, 

And  uppe  the  Lindis  raging  sped. 
It  swept  with  thunderous  noises  loud ; 
Shaped  like  a  curling  snow-white  cloud, 
Or  like  a  demon  in  a  shroud. 

And  rearing  Lindis  backward  pressed 
Shook  all  her  trembling  bankes  amaine ; 

Then  madly  at  the  eygre's  breast 
Flung  uppe  her  weltering  walls  again. 

Then  bankes  came  downe  with  ruin  and  rout — 

Then  beaten  foam  flew  round  about — 

Then  all  the  mighty  floods  were  out. 

So  farre,  so  fast  the  eygre  drave, 
The  heart  had  hardly  time  to  beat, 

Before  a  shallow  seething  wave 
Sobbed  in  the  grasses  at  oure  feet : 

The  feet  had  hardly  time  to  flee 

Before  it  brake  against  the  knee, 

And  all  the  world  was  in  the  sea. 

Upon  the  roofe  we  sate  that  night, 
The  noise  of  bells  went  sweeping  by : 

I  marked  the  lofty  beacon  light 

Stream  from  the  church  tower,  red  and  high-— 


598  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

A  lurid  mark  and  dread  to  see ; 
And  awesome  bells  they  were  to  mee, 
That  in  the  dark  rang  'Enderby.' 

They  rang  the  sailor  lads  to  guide 

From  roof e  to  roof e  who  fearless  rowed ; 

And  I — my  sonne  was  at  my  side, 
And  yet  the  ruddy  beacon  glowed : 

And  yet  he  moaned  beneath  his  breath, 

'O  come  in  life,  or  come  in  death ! 

0  lost !  my  love,  Elizabeth/ 

And  didst  thou  visit  him  no  more? 

Thou  didst,  thou  didst,  my  daughter  deare; 
The  waters  laid  thee  at  his  doore, 

Ere  yet  the  early  dawn  was  clear. 
Thy  pretty  bairns  in  fast  embrace, 
The  lifted  sun  shone  on  thy  face, 
Downe  drifted  to  thy  dwelling-place. 

That  flow  strewed  wrecks  about  the  grass, 
That  ebbe  swept  out  the  flocks  to  sea ; 

A  fatal  ebbe  and  flow,  alas ! 

To  manye  more  than  myne  and  mee : 

But  each  will  mourn  his  own  (she  saith), 

And  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew  breath 

Than  my  sonne's  wife,  Elizabeth. 

1  shall  never  hear  her  more 
By  the  reedy  Lindis  shore, 

'  Cusha !  Cusha !  Cusha ! '  calling, 

Ere  the  early  dews  be  falling ; 

I  shall  never  hear  her  song, 

*  Cusha !  Cusha ! '  all  along 

Where  the  sunny  Lindis  floweth, 

!         Goeth,  floweth ; 

From  the  meads  where  melick  groweth, 

When  the  water  winding  down, 

Onward  floweth  to  the  town. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  399 

I  shall  never  see  her  more 

Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  quiver, 

Shiver,  quiver ; 

Stand  beside  the  sobbing  river, 
Sobbing,  throbbing,  in  its  falling 
To  the  sandy  lonesome  shore ; 
I  shall  never  hear  her  calling, 
'Leave  your  meadow  grasses  mellow, 

Mellow,  mellow; 

Quit  your  cowslips,  cowslips  yellow ; 
Comme  uppe  Whiter  oot,  come  uppe  Lightfoot ; 
Quit  your  pipes  of  parsley  hollow, 

Hollow,  hollow ; 

Come  uppe  Lightfoot,  rise  and  follow ; 
Lightfoot,  Whitefoot, 
From  your  clovers  lift  the  head ; 
Come  uppe  Jetty,  follow,  follow, 
Jetty,  to  the  milking  shed.' 

Jean  Ingelow 

CCCLXXXIV 
A   SUMMER  NIGHT 

In  the  deserted  moon-blanch'd  street 
How  lonely  rings  the  echo  of  my  feet ! 

Those  windows,  which  I  gaze  at,  frown, 

Silent  and  white,  unopening  down, 

Repellent  as  the  world ; — but  see ! 

A  break  between  the  housetops  shows 
The  moon,  and,  lost  behind  her,  fading  dim 
Into  the  dewy  dark  obscurity 

Down  at  the  far  horizon's  rim, 

Doth  a  whole  tract  of  heaven  disclose, 

And  to  my  mind  the  thought 

Is  on  a  sudden  brought 
Of  a  past  night,  and  a  far  different  scene. 
Headlands  stood  out  into  the  moon-lit  deep 

As  clearly  as  at  noon ; 

The  spring-tide's  brimming  flow 


400  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Heaved  dazzlingly  between ; 

Houses  with  long  white  sweep 

Girdled  the  glistening  bay ; 

Behind,  through  the  soft  air, 
The  blue  haze-cradled  mountains  spread  away. 

That  night  was  far  more  fair — 
But  the  same  restless  pacings  to  and  fro, 
And  the  same  vainly  throbbing  heart  was  there, 

And  the  same  bright  calm  moon. 

And  the  calm  moonlight  seems  to  say  : 
Hast  thou  then  still  the  old  unquiet  breast, 

Which  never  deadens  into  rest, 

Nor  ever  feels  the  fiery  glow 
That  whirls  the  spirit  from  itself  away, 
But  fluctuates  to  and  fro, 

Never  by  passion  quite  possessed, 
Any  never  quite  benumb 'd  by  the  world's  sway? 

And  I,  I  know  not  if  to  pray 
Still  to  be  what  I  am,  or  yield,  and  be 

Like  all  the  other  men  I  see. 

For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 

Where  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 
With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil,  they  languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  taskwork  give, 
Dreaming  of  nought  beyond  their  prison- wall. 

And  as,  year  after  year, 
Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labour  fall 

From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 

Never  yet  comes  more  near, 
Gloom  settles  slowly  down  over  their  breast ; 

And  while  they  try  to  stem 
The  waves  of  mournful  thought  by  which  they  are 

prest, 

Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them, 
Unfreed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  unblest. 

And  the  rest,  a  few, 
Escape  their  prison,  and  depart 
On  the  wide  ocean  of  life  anew. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  401 

There  the  freed  prisoner,  where'er  his  heart 

Listeth,  will  sail ; 
Nor  doth  he  know  how  there  prevail, 

Despotic  on  that  sea, 
Trade- winds  which  cross  it  from  eternity. 
Awhile  he  holds  some  false  way,  undebarr'd 

By  thwarting  signs,  and  braves 
The  freshening  wind  and  blackening  waves. 
And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him ;  and  between 
The  lightning-bursts  is  seen 
Only  a  driving  wreck, 

And  the  pale  master  on  his  spar-strewn  deck 
With  anguish' d  face  and  flying  hair 

Grasping  the  rudder  hard, 

Still  bent  to  make  some  port  he  knows  not  where, 
Still  standing  for  some  false  impossible  shore. 

And  sterner  comes  the  roar 
Of    sea    and  wind,  and    through    the    deepening 

gloom 

Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman  loom, 
And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no  more. 

Is  there  no  life,  but  these  alone  ? 
Madman  or  slave,  must  man  be  one? 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain! 

Clearness  divine ! 

Ye  heavens,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 
Of  languor,  though  so  calm,  and  though  so  great 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate ! 
Who,  though  so  noble,  share  in  the  world's  toil, 
And,  though  so  task'd,  keep  free  from  dust  and 

soil! 

I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  long'd  deeply  once,  and  long'd  in  vain ; 
But  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 
How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons  be, 

2D 


402  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency ! 

How  it  were  good  to  live  there,  and  breathe  free  I 

How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 

Is  left  to  each  man  still  1 

M.  Arnold 

CCCLXXXV 

PHILOMELA 

Hark !  ah,  the  nightingale ! 

The  tawny-throated ! 

Hark !  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 
What  triumph !  hark — what  pain ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That    wild,    unquench'd,    deep-sunken,    old-world 

pain — 

Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm? 

Dost  thou  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild? 

Dost  thou  again  peruse 

With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame? 

Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale? 

Listen,  Eugenia — 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  403 

How  thick  the  bursts  come  crowding  through  the 

leaves ! 

Again — thou  hearest? 
Eternal  passion ! 
Eternal  pain ! 

M.  Arnold 

CCCLXXXVI 
REQUIESCAT 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses, 

And  never  a  spray  of  yew ! 
In  quiet  she  reposes ; 

Ah !  would  that  I  did  too. 

Her  mirth  the  world  required ; 

She  bathed  it  in  smiles  of  glee. 
But  her  heart  was  tired,  tired, 

And  now  they  let  her  be. 

Her  life  was  turning,  turning, 

In  mazes  of  heat  and  sound ; 
But  for  peace  her  soul  was  yearning, 

And  now  peace  laps  her  round. 

Her  cabin'd,  ample  spirit, 
It  flutter'd  and  f  ail'd  for  breath ; 

To-night  it  doth  inherit 
The  vasty  hall  of  death. 

M.  Arnold 

CCCLXXXVII 

RUGBY  CHAPEL 

November,  1857 

Coldly,  sadly  descends 
The  autumn  evening !    The  field 
Strewn  with  its  dank  yellow  drifts 
Of  wither'd  leaves,  and  the  elms, 

2D   2 


404  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Fade  into  dimness  apace, 

Silent ; — hardly  a  shout  j 

From  a  few  boys  late  at  their  play ! 

The  lights  come  out  in  the  street, 

In  the  school-room  windows ;  but  cold, 

Solemn,  unlighted,  austere, 

Through  the  gathering  darkness,  arise 

The  chapel-walls,  in  whose  bound 

Thou,  my  father !  art  laid. 

There  thou  dost  lie,  in  the  gloom 
Of  the  autumn  evening.     But  ah ! 
That  word,  gloom,  to  my  mind 
Brings  thee  back  in  the  light 
Of  thy  radiant  vigour  again ! 
In  the  gloom  of  November  we  pass'd 
Days  not  of  gloom  at  thy  side ; 
Seasons  impair'd  not  the  ray 
Of  thine  even  cheerfulness  clear. 
Such  thou  wast !  and  I  stand 
In  the  autumn  evening,  and  think 
Of  bygone  autumns  with  thee. 

Fifteen  years  have  gone  round 
Since  thou  arosest  to  tread, 
In  the  summer  morning,  the  road 
Of  death,  at  a  call  unforeseen, 
Sudden !     For  fifteen  years, 
We  who  till  then  in  thy  shade 
Rested  as  under  the  boughs 
Of  a  mighty  oak,  have  endured 
Sunshine  and  rain  as  we  might, 
Bare,  unshaded,  alone, 
Lacking  the  shelter  of  thee ! 

O  strong  soul,  by  what  shore 
Tarriest  thou  now?     For  that  force, 
Surely,  has  not  been  left  vain ! 
Somewhere,  surely,  afar, 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  405 

In  the  sounding  labour-house  vast 
Of  being,  is  practised  that  strength 
Zealous,  beneficent,  firm ! 


Yes,  in  some  far-shining  sphere, 
Conscious  or  not  of  the  past, 
Still  thou  performest  the  word 
Of  the  Spirit  in  whom  thou  dost  live- 
Prompt,  unwearied,  as  here ! 
Still  thou  upraises t  with  zeal 
The  humble  good  from  the  ground, 
Sternly  repressest  the  bad ! 
Still,  like  a  trumpet,  dost  rouse 
Those  who  with  half-open  eyes 
Tread  the  borderland  dim 
'Twixt  vice  and  virtue ;  reviv'st, 
Succourest ! — this  was  thy  work, 
This  was  thy  life  upon  earth. 


What  is  the  course  of  the  life 
Of  mortal  men  on  the  earth  ? — 
Most  men  eddy  about 
Here  and  there — eat  and  drink, 
Chatter  and  love  and  hate, 
Gather  and  squander,  are  raised 
Aloft,  are  hurl'd  in  the  dust, 
Striving  blindly,  achieving 
Nothing ;  and  then  they  die — 
Perish !  and  no  one  asks 
Who  or  what  they  have  been, 
More  than  he  asks  what  waves, 
In  the  moonlit  solitudes  mild 
Of  the  midmost  Ocean,  have  swell'd, 
Foam'd  for  a  moment,  and  gone. 
And  there  are  some,  whom  a  thirst 
Ardent,  unquenchable,  fires, 
Not  with  the  crowd  to  be  spent — 
Not  without  aim  to  go  round 


4o6  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

In  an  eddy  of  purposeless  dust, 
Effort  unmeaning  and  vain. 
Ah  yes,  some  of  us  strive 
Not  without  action  to  die 
Fruitless,  but  something  to  snatch 
From  dull  oblivion,  nor  all 
Glut  the  devouring  grave ! 
We,  we  have  chosen  our  path — 
Path  to  a  clear-purposed  goal, 
Path  of  advance ! — but  it  leads 
A  long,  steep  journey,  through  sunk 
Gorges,  o'er  mountains  in  snow ! 
Cheerful,  with  friends,  we  set  forth — 
Then,  on  the  height,  comes  the  storm ! 
Thunder  crashes  from  rock 
To  rock,  the  cataracts  reply ; 
Lightnings  dazzle  our  eyes ; 
Roaring  torrents  have  breach' d 
The  track — the  stream-bed  descends 
In  the  place  where  the  wayfarer  once 
Planted  his  footstep — the  spray 
Boils  o'er  its  borders !  aloft, 
The  unseen  snow-beds  dislodge 
Their  hanging  ruin ; — alas, 
Havoc  is  made  in  our  train ! 
Friends  who  set  forth  at  our  side 
Falter,  are  lost  in  the  storm ! 
We,  we  only,  are  left ! 
With  frowning  foreheads,  with  lips 
Sternly  compress'd,  we  strain  on, 
On — and  at  nightfall,  at  last, 
Come  to  the  end  of  our  way, 
To  the  lonely  inn  'mid  the  rocks ; 
Where  the  gaunt  and  taciturn  host 
Stands  on  the  threshold,  the  wind 
Shaking  his  thin  white  hairs — 
Holds  his  lantern  to  scan 
Our  storm-beat  figures,  and  asks : 
Whom  in  our  party  we  bring  ? 
Whom  we  have  left  in  the  snow? 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  407 

Sadly  we  answer :  We  bring 
Only  ourselves !  we  lost 
Sight  of  the  rest  in  the  storm ! 
Hardly  ourselves  we  fought  through, 
Stripp'd  without  friends,  as  we  are ! 
Friends,  companions,  and  train 
The  avalanche  swept  from  our  side. 

But  thou  would'st  not  alone 
Be  saved,  my  father !  alone 
Conquer  and  come  to  thy  goal, 
Leaving  the  rest  in  the  wild. 
We  were  weary,  and  we 
Fearful,  and  we,  in  our  march, 
Fain  to  drop  down  and  to  die. 
Still  thou  turnedst,  and  still 
Beckonedst  the  trembler,  and  still 
Gavest  the  weary  thy  hand ! 
If,  in  the  paths  of  the  world, 
Stones  might  have  wounded  thy  feet, 
Toil  or  dejection  have  tried 
Thy  spirit,  of  that  we  saw 
Nothing !  to  us  thou  wert  still 
Cheerful,  and  .helpful,  and  firm. 
Therefore  to  thee  it  was  given 
Many  to  save  with  thyself ; 
And,  at  the  end  of  thy  day, 
O  faithful  shepherd !  to  come, 
Bringing  thy  sheep  in  thy  hand. 

And  through  thee  I  believe 

In  the  noble  and  great  who  are  gone ; 

Pure  souls  honour'd  and  blest 

By  former  ages,  who  else — 

Such,  so  soulless,  so  poor, 

Is  the  race  of  men  whom  I  see — 

Seem'd  but  a  dream  of  the  heart, 

Seem'd  but  a  cry  of  desire. 

Yes !  I  believe  that  there  lived 

Others  like  thee  in  the  past, 


408  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Not  like  the  men  of  the  crowd 
Who  all  round  me  to-day 
Bluster  or  cringe,  and  make  life 
Hideous,  and  arid,  and  vile ; 
But  souls  temper'd  with  fire, 
Fervent,  heroic,  and  good, 
Helpers  and  friends  of  mankind. 

Servants  of  God ! — or  sons 
Shall  I  not  call  you  ?  because 
Not  as  servants  ye  knew 
Your  Father's  innermost  mind, 
His,  who  unwillingly  sees 
One  of  his  little  ones  lost — 
Yours  is  the  praise,  if  mankind 
Hath  not  as  yet  in  its  march 
Fainted,  and  fallen,  and  died ! 

See !  in  the  rocks  of  the  world 

Marches  the  host  of  mankind, 

A  feeble,  wavering  line ! 

Where  are  they  tending?— A  God 

MarshalPd  them,  gave  them  their  goal.-* 

Ah,  but  the  way  is  so  long ! 

Years  they  have  been  in  the  wild ! 

Sore  thirst  plagues  them ;  the  rocks, 

Rising  all  round,  overawe. 

Factions  divided  them — their  host 

Threatens  to  break,  to  dissolve. — 

Ah,  keep,  keep  them  combined ! 

Else,  of  the  myriads  who  fill 

That  army,  not  one  shall  arrive ! 

Sole  they  shall  stray;  in  the  rocks       % 

Labour  for  ever  in  vain, 

Die  one  by  one  in  the  waste. 

Then,  in  such  hour  of  need 

Of  your  fainting,  dispirited  race, 

Ye,  like  angels,  appear, 

Radiant  with  ardour  divine. 

Beacons  of  hope,  ye  appear ! 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  409 

Languor  is  not  in  your  heart, 
Weakness  is  not  in  your  word, 
Weariness  not  on  your  brow. 
Ye  alight  in  our  van !  at  your  voice, 
Panic,  despair,  flee  away. 
Ye  move  through  the  ranks,  recall 
The  stragglers,  refresh  the  outworn, 
Praise,  re-inspire  the  brave ! 
Order,  courage,  return. 
Eyes  rekindling,  and  prayers, 
Follow  your  steps  as  ye  go. 
Ye  fill  up  the  gaps  in  our  files, 
Strengthen  the  wavering  line, 
Stablish,  continue  our  march, 
On,  to  the  bound  of  the  waste, 
On,  to  the  City  of  God ! 

M.  Arnold 

CCCLXXXVIII 
THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 


4io  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 
Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years, 
.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 

Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 
Fell  all  about  my  face  .  .  . 

Nothing  :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 
The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 
That  she  was  standing  on ; 

By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 
The  which  is  Space  begun ; 

So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 
She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 


It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Heard  hardly,  some  of  her  new  friends 

Amid  their  loving  games 
Spake  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  virginal  chaste  names ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  411 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;   and  now 

She  -spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !  Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair?)     • 

'I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 
'Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  prayed  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid? 

1  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
We  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

'We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God : 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 


412  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

'  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree, 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

'And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know.' 

(Alas !  We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee?) 

'We  two,'  she  said,  'will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

'  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

'  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 
i    Not  once  abashed  or  weak : 
'And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  413 

'  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 

To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 
Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 

Bowed  with  their  aureoles : 
And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 

To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

'  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me : — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love, — only  to  be, 
As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 

Together,  I  and  he.' 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 
N  Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 
'All  this  is  when  he  comes.'     She  ceased. 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  filled 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 

D.  G.  Rossetti 

CCCLXXXIX 

SONG 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree  : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet ; 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 


4i4  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain ; 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 

cccxc 
A   BIRTHDAY 

My  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 

Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot ; 
My  heart  is  like  an  appletree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickset  fruit ; 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea ; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 
Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down ; 

Hang  it  with  vair  and  purple  dyes ; 
Carve  it  in  doves,  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes ; 
Work  it  in  gold  and  silver  grapes, 

In  leaves,  and  silver  fleurs-de-lys ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 

cccxci 
BARBARA 

On  the  Sabbath-day, 
Through  the  churchyard  old  and  grey, 
Over  the  crisp  and  yellow  leaves,  I  held  my  rustling 

way ; 

And  amid  the  words  of  mercy,  falling  on  my  soul 
like  balms, 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  415 

'Mid  the  gorgeous  storms  of  music — in  the  mellow 

organ-calms, 
'Mid  the  upward-streaming  prayers,  and  the  rich 

and  solemn  psalms, 
I  stood  careless,  Barbara. 

My  heart  was  otherwhere 
While  the  organ  shook  the  air, 
And  the  priest,  with  outspread  hands,  blessed  the 

people  with  a  prayer ; 
But,  when  rising  to  go  homeward,  with  a  mild  and 

saint-like  shine 
Gleamed  a  face  of  airy  beauty  with  its  heavenly 

eyes  on  mine — 
Gleamed  and  vanished  in  a  moment — O  that  face 

was  surely  thine 
Out  of  heaven,  Barbara ! 

O  pallid,  pallid  face ! 

0  earnest  eyes  of  grace ! 

When  last  I  saw  thee,  dearest,  it  was  in  another 

place. 
You   came   running   forth   to   meet   me   with   my 

love-gift  on  your  wrist : 
The  flutter  of  a  long  white  dress,  then  all  was  lost 

in  mist — 

A  purple  stain  of  agony  was  on  the  mouth  I  kissed, 
That  wild  morning,  Barbara. 

1  searched,  in  my  despair, 
Sunny  noon  and  midnight  air ; 

I  could  not  drive  away  the  thought  that  you  were 

lingering  there. 
O  many  and  many  a  winter  night  I  sat  when  you 

were  gone, 
My  worn  face  buried  in  my  hands,  beside  the  fire 

alone — 
Within  the  dripping  churchyard,  the  rain  plashing 

on  your  stone, 
You  were  sleeping,  Barbara. 


416  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

'Mong  angels,  do  you  think 
Of  the  precious  golden  link 
I  clasped  around  your  happy  arm  while  sitting  by 

yon  brink? 
Or  when  that  night  of  gliding  dance,  of  laughter 

and  guitars, 
Was  emptied  of  its  music,  and  we  watched,  through 

latticed  bars, 
The  silent  midnight  heaven  creeping  o'er  us  with 

its  stars, 
Till  the  day  broke,  Barbara? 

In  the  years  I've  changed ; 
Wild  and  far  my  heart  hath  ranged, 
And  many  sins  and  errors  now  have  been  on  me 

avenged ; 
But  to  you  I  have  been  faithful,  whatsoever  good  I 

lacked : 
I  loved  you,  and  above  my  life  still  hangs  that  love 

intact — 
Your  love  the  trembling  rainbow,  I  the  reckless 

cataract — 

Still  I  love  you,  Barbara. 

, 

Yet,  love,  I  am  unblest ; 
With  many  doubts  opprest, 

I  wander  like  a  desert  wind,  without  a  place  of  rest. 
Could  I  but  win  you  for  an  hour  from  off  that  starry 

shore, 
The  hunger  of  my  soul  were  stilled,  for  Death  hath 

told  you  more 
Than  the  melancholy  world  doth  know;    things 

deeper  than  all  lore 
You  could  teach  me,  Barbara. 

In  vain,  in  vain,  in  vain, 
You  will  never  come  again. 

There  droops  upon  the  dreary  hills  a  mournful 
fringe  of  rain ; 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  417 

The  gloaming  closes  slowly  round,  loud  winds  are 

in  the  tree, 
Round  selfish  shores  for  ever  moans  the  hurt  and 

wounded  sea, 
There  is  no  rest  upon  the  earth,  peace  is  with  Death 

and  thee, 
Barbara ! 

A.  Smith 

cccxcn 
SUMMER  DAWN 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips, 
Think  but  one  thought  of  me  up  in  the  stars. 

The  summer  night  waneth,  the  morning  light  slips, 
Faint  and  grey  'twixt  the  leaves  of  the  aspen, 
betwixt  the  cloud-bars, 

That  are  patiently  waiting  there  for  the  dawn : 
Patient  and  colourless,  though  Heaven's  gold 

Waits  to  float  through  them  along  with  the  sun. 

Far  out  in  the  meadows,  above  the  young  corn, 
The  heavy  elms  wait,  and  restless  and  cold 

The  uneasy  wind  rises ;   the  roses  are  dun ; 

Through  the  long  twilight  they  pray  for  the  dawn, 

Round  the  lone  house  in  the  midst  of  the  corn. 
Speak  but  one  word  to  me  over  the  corn, 
Over  the  tender,  bowed  locks  of  the  corn. 

W.  Morris 

CCCXCIII 

As  we  rush,  as  we  rush  in  the  train, 
The  trees  and  the  houses  go  wheeling  back, 

But  the  starry  heavens  above  the  plain 
Come  flying  on  our  track. 

All  the  beautiful  stars  of  the  sky, 
The  silver  doves  of  the  forest  of  Night, 

Over  the  dull  earth  swarm  and  fly, 
Companions  of  our  flight. 


4i8  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

We  will  rush  ever  on  without  fear ; 

Let  the  goal  be  far,  the  flight  be  fleet ! 
For  we  carry  the  Heavens  with  us,  dear, 

While  the  Earth  slips  from  our  feet ! 

/.  Thomson 

cccxciv 
ITYLUS 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow, 
How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. . 
What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed? 

0  swallow,  sister,  O  fair  swift  swallow, 

Why  wilt  thou  fly  after  spring  to  the  south, 
The  soft  south  whither  thine  heart  is  set  ? 
Shall  not  the  grief  of  the  old  time  follow  ? 

Shall  not  the  song  thereof  cleave  to  thy  mouth? 
Hast  thou  forgotten  ere  I  forget  ? 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  fleet  sweet  swallow, 
Thy  way  is  long  to  the  sun  and  the  south; 

But  I,  fulfilled  of  my  heart's  desire, 
Shedding  my  song  upon  height,  upon  hollow, 
From  tawny  body  and  sweet  small  mouth 
Feed  the  heart  of  the  night  with  fire. 

1  the  nightingale  all  spring  through, 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  changing  swallow, 

All  spring  through  till  the  spring  be  done, 
Clothed  with  the  light  of  the  night  on  the  dew, 

Sing,  while  the  hours  and  the  wild  birds  follow, 
Take  flight  and  follow  and  find  the  sun. 

Sister,  my  sister,  O  soft  light  swallow, 
Though  all  things  feast  in  the  spring's  guest- 
chamber, 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  419 

How  hast  thou  heart  to  be  glad  thereof  yet? 
For  where  thou  fliest  I  shall  not  follow, 
Till  life  forget  and  death  remember, 
Till  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing. 

Hast  thou  the  heart  ?  is  it  all  past  over  ? 
Thy  lord  the  summer  is  good  to  follow, 
And  fair  the  feet  of  thy  lover  the  spring : 
But  what  wilt  thou  say  to  the  spring  thy  lover  ? 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  fleeting  swallow, 
My  heart  in  me  is  a  molten  ember 

And  over  my  head  the  waves  have  met. 
But  thou  wouldst  tarry  or  I  would  follow, 
Could  I  forget  or  thou  remember, 
Couldst  thou  remember  and  I  forget. 

O  sweet  stray  sister,  O  shifting  swallow, 
The  heart's  division  divideth  us. 

Thy  heart  is  light  as  a  leaf  of  a  tree ; 
But  mine  goes  forth  among  sea-gulfs  hollow 
To  the  place  of  the  slaying  of  Itylus, 
The  feast  of  Daulis,  the  Thracian  sea. 

O  swallow,  sister,  O  rapid  swallow, 
I  pray  thee  sing  not  a  little  space. 

Are  not  the  roofs  and  the  lintels  wet  ? 
The  woven  web  that  was  plain  to  follow, 
The  small  slain  body,  the  flowerlike  face, 
Can  I  remember  if  thou  forget  ? 

O  sister,  sister,  thy  first-begotten ! 

The  hands  that  cling  and  the  feet  that  follow, 

The  voice  of  the  child's  blood  crying  yet, 
Who  hath  remembered  me  ?  who  hath  forgotten  ? 
Thou  hast  forgotten,  O  summer  swallow, 
But  the  world  shall  end  when  I  forget. 

A.  C.  Swinburne 


420  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

cccxcv 
A   FORSAKEN  GARDEN 

In  a  coign  of  the  cliff  between  lowland  and  highland, 
At  the  sea-down's  edge  between  windward  and  lee, 
Walled  round  with  rocks  as  an  inland  island, 

The  ghost  of  a  garden  fronts  the  sea. 
A  girdle  of  brushwood  and  thorn  encloses 

The  steep  square  slope  of  the  blossomless  bed 
Where  the  weeds  that  grew  green  from  the  graves 
of  its  roses 

Now  lie  dead. 

The  fields  fall  southward,  abrupt  and  broken, 
To  the  low  last  edge  of  the  long  lone  land. 
If  a  step  should  sound  or  a  word  be  spoken, 

Would  a  ghost  not  rise  at  the  strange  guest's 

hand? 
So  long  have  the  grey  bare  walks  lain  guestless, 

Through  branches  and  briers  if  a  man  make  way 
He  shall  find  no  life  but  the  sea-wind's,  restless 
Night  and  day. 

The  dense  hard  passage  is  blind  and  stifled 

That  crawls  by  a  track  none  turn  to  climb 
To  the  strait  waste  place  that  the  years  have  rifled 
Of  all  but  the  thorns  that  are  touched  not  of 

time. 
The  thorns  he  spares  when  the  rose  is  taken ; 

The  rocks  are  left  when  he  wastes  the  plain. 

The  wind  that  wanders,  the  weeds  wind-shaken, 

These  remain. 

Not  a  flower  to  be  pressed  of  the  foot  that  falls  not ; 

As  the  heart  of  a  dead  man  the  seed-plots  are  dry ; 
From  the  thicket  of  thorns  whence  the  nightingale 
calls  not, 

Could  she  call,  there  were  never  a  rose  to  reply. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  421 

Over  the  meadows  that  blossom  and  wither 

Rings  but  the  note  of  a  sea-bird's  song ; 
Only  the  sun  and  the  rain  come  hither 
All  year  long. 

The  sun  burns  sere  and  the  rain  dishevels 
One  gaunt  bleak  blossom  of  scentless  breath. 

Only  the  wind  here  hovers  and  revels 

In  a  round  where  life  seems  barren  as  death. 

Here  there  was  laughing  of  old,  there  was  weeping, 
Haply,  of  lovers  none  ever  will  know, 

Whose  eyes  went  seaward  a  hundred  sleeping 
Years  ago. 

Heart   handfast   in   heart   as    they  stood,    'Look 

thither/ 
Did  he  whisper?  'look  forth  from  the  flowers  to 

the  sea ; 

For    the    foam-flowers    endure    when    the    rose- 
blossoms  wither, 

And  men  that  love  lightly  may  die — but  we?' 
And   the   same   wind   sang   and   the   same   waves 

whitened, 

And  or  ever  the  garden's  last  petals  were  shed, 
In  the  lips  that  had  whispered,  the  eyes  that  had 
lightened, 

Love  was  dead. 

Or  they  loved  their  life .  through,  and  then  went 

whither  ? 
And  were  one  to  the  end — but   what   end   who 

knows  ? 
Love  deep  as  the  sea  as  a  rose  must  wither, 

As  the  rose-red  seaweed  that  mocks  the  rose. 
Shall  the  dead  take  thought  for  the  dead  to  love 

them? 

What  love  was  ever  as  deep  as  a  grave  ? 
They  are  loveless  now  as  the  grass  above  them, 
Or  the  wave. 


422  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

All  are  at  one  now,  roses  and  lovers, 

Not  known  of  the  cliffs  and  the  fields  and  the  sea. 
Not  a  breath  of  the  time  that  has  been  hovers 

In  the  air  now  soft  with  a  summer  to  be. 
Not    a    breath    shall    there    sweeten    the    seasons 

hereafter 

Of  the  flowers  or  the  lovers  that  laugh  now  or  weep 
When  as  they  that  are  free  now  of  weeping  and 
laughter 

We  shall  sleep. 

Here  death  may  deal  not  again  for  ever ; 

Here  change  may  come  not  till  all  change  end. 
From  the  graves  they  have  made  they  shall  rise  up 

never, 

Who  have  left  nought  living  to  ravage  and  rend. 
Earth,    stones,    and    thorns   of    the    wild   ground 

growing, 

While  the  sun  and  the  rain  live,  these  shall  be; 
Till  a  last  wind's  breath  upon  all  these  blowing 
Roll  the  sea. 

Till  the  slow  sea  rise  and  the  sheer  cliff  crumble, 

Till  terrace  and  meadow  the  deep  gulfs  drink, 
Till  the  strength  of  the  waves  of  the  high  tides 

humble 

The  fields  that  lessen,  the  rocks  that  shrink ; 
Here  now  in  his  triumph  where  all  things  falter, 
Stretched  out  on  the  spoils  that  his  own  hand 

spread, 

As  a  god  self-slain  on  his  own  strange  altar, 
Death  lies  dead. 

A.  C.  Swinburne 


Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me, 
Black  as  the  pit  from  pole  to  pole,  ] 

I  thank  whatever  gods  may  be 
For  my  unconquerable  soul. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  423 

In  the  -fell  clutch  of  circumstance 
I  have  not  winced  nor  cried  aloud. 

Under  the  bludgeonings  of  chance 
My  head  is  bloody,  but  unbowed. 

Beyond  this  place  of  wrath  and  tears 
Looms  but  the  Horror  of  the  shade, 

And  yet  the  menace  of  the  years 
Finds,  and  shall  find,  me  unafraid. 

It  matters  not  how  strait  the  gate, 

How  charged  with  punishments  the  scroll, 

I  am  the  master  of  my  fate  : 
I  am  the  captain  of  my  soul. 

W.  E.  Henley 


cccxcvn 
DAISY 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown 

Six  foot  out  of  the  turf, 
And  the  harebell  shakes  on  the  windy  hill  - 

O  the  breath  of  the  distant  surf  !  — 

The  hills  look  over  on  the  South, 
And  southward  dreams  the  sea ; 

And  with  the  sea-breeze  hand  in  hand 
Came  innocence  and  she. 

Where  'mid  the  gorse  the  raspberry 

Red  for  the  gatherer  springs, 
Two  children  did  we  stray  and  talk 

Wise,  idle,  childish  things. 

She  listened  with  big-lipped  surprise, 
Breast-deep  mid  flower  and  spine : 

Her  skin  was  like  a  grape,  whose  veins 
Run  snow  instead  of  wine. 


424  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

She  knew  not  those  sweet  words  she  spake, 
Nor  knew  her  own  sweet  way ; 

But  there's  never  a  bird,  so  sweet  a  song 
Thronged  in  whose  throat  that  day  ! 

Oh,  there  were  flowers  in  Storrington 
On  the  turf  and  on  the  spray ; 

But  the  sweetest  flower  on  Sussex  hills 
Was  the  Daisy-flower  that  day  I 

Her  beauty  smoothed  earth's  furrowed  face. 

She  gave  me  tokens  three :  — 
A  look,  a  word  of  her  winsome  mouth, 

And  a  wild  raspberry. 

A  berry  red,  a  guileless  look, 
A  still  word,  —  strings  of  sand  ! 

And  yet  they  made  my  wild,  wild  heart 
Fly  down  to  her  little  hand. 

For  standing  artless  as  the  air, 

And  candid  as  the  skies, 
She  took  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  sweet  eyes. 

The  fairest  things  have  fleetest  end, 
Their  scent  survives  their  close : 

But  the  rose's  scent  is  bitterness 
To  him  that  loved  the  rose. 

She  looked  a  little  wistfully, 
Then  went  her  sunshine  way :  — 

The  sea's  eye  had  a  mist  on  it, 
And  the  leaves  fell  from  the  day. 

She  went  her  unremembering  way, 

She  went  and  left  in  me 
The  pang  of  all  the  partings  gone, 

And  partings  yet  to  be. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  425 

She  left  me  marvelling  why  my  soul 

Was  sad  that  she  was  glad ; 
At  all  the  sadness  in  the  sweet, 

The  sweetness  in  the  sad. 

Still,  still  I  seemed  to  see  her,  still 

Look  up  with  soft  replies, 
And  take  the  berries  with  her  hand, 

And  the  love  with  her  lovely  eyes. 

Nothing  begins,  and  nothing  ends, 

That  is  not  paid  with  moan ; 
For  we  are  born  in  other's  pain, 

And  perish  in  our  own. 

Francis  Thompson 

CCCXCVIII 

TO  THE  SINKING  SUN 

How  graciously  thou  wear'st  the  yoke 

Of  use  that  does  not  fail ! 
The  grasses,  like  an  anchored  smoke, 

Ride  in  the  bending  gale ; 
This  knoll  is  snowed  with  blosmy  manna, 

And  fire-dropt  as  a  seraph's  mail. 

Here  every  eve  thou  stretchest  out 

Untarnishable  wing, 
And  marvellously  bring' st  about 

Newly  an  olden  thing ; 
Nor  ever  through  like-ordered  heaven 

Moves  largely  thy  grave  progressing. 

There  every  eve  thou  goest  down 

Behind  the  self -same  hill, 
Nor  ever  twice  alike  go'st  down 

Behind  the  self-same  hill ; 
Nor  like- ways  is  one  flame-sopped  flower 

Possessed  with  glory  past  its  will. 


426  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Not  twice  alike !  I  am  not  blind,  ' 

My  sight  is  live  to  see ; 
And  yet  I  do  complain  of  thy 

Weary  variety. 
O  Sun  !  I  ask  thee  less  or  more, 

Change  not  at  all,  or  utterly  I 

O  give  me  unprevisioned  new, 

Or  give  to  change  reprieve  ! 
For  new  in  one  is  olden  too, 

That  I  for  sameness  grieve. 
O  flowers  !  O  grasses  !  be  but  once 

The  grass  and  flower  of  yester-eve  ! 

Wonder  and  sadness  are  the  lot 
Of  change :  thou  yield'st  mine  eyes 

Grief  of  vicissitude,  but  not 
Its  penetrant  surprise. 

Immutability  mutable 
Burthens  my  spirit  and  the  skies. 

O  altered  joy,  all  joyed  of  yore 
Plodding  in  unconned  ways ! 

0  grief  grieved  out,  and  yet  once  more 
A  dull,  new,  staled  amaze  ! 

1  dream,  and  all  was  dreamed  before, 
Or  dream  I  so  ?  the  dreamer  says. 

Francis  Thompson 

cccxcix 
SONG 

I  came  to  the  doors  of  the  House  of  Love 
And  knocked  as  the  starry  night  went  by ; 

And  my  true  love  cried  "Who  knocks?"  and  I  said 
"It  is  I." 

And  Love  looked  down  from  a  lattice  above 
Where  the  roses  were  dry  as  the  lips  of  the  dead; 

"There  is  not  room  in  the  House  of  Love 
For  you  both,"  he  said. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  427 

I  plucked  a  leaf  from  the  porch  and  crept 
Away  through  a  desert  of  scoffs  and  scorns 

To  a  lonely  place  where  I  prayed  and  wept 
And  wore  me  a  crown  of  thorns. 

I  came  once  more  to  the  House  of  Love 
And  knocked,  ah,  softly  and  wistfully, 

And  my  true  love  cried  "Who  knocks?"  and  I  said 
"None  now  but  thee." 

And  the  great  doors  opened  wide  apart 
And  a  voice  rang  out  from  a  glory  of  light, 

"Make  room,  make  room  for  a  faithful  heart 
In  the  House  of  Love,  to-night." 

Alfred  Noyes 

cccc 
LOVE'S  ROSARY 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary 
.   For  now  my  love's  away : 
To-morrow  he  shall  come  to  me 

About  the  break  of  day ; 
A  rosary  of  twenty  hours, 

And  then  a  rose  of  May ; 
A  rosary  of  fettered  flowers, 

And  then  a  holy-day. 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary, 

My  rosary  of  hours : 
And  here's  a  flower  of  memory, 

And  here's  a  hope  of  flowers, 
And  here's  an  hour  that  yearns  with  pain 

For  old  forgotten  years, 
An  hour  of  loss,  an  hour  of  gain, 

And  then  a  shower  of  tears. 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary, 

Because  my  love's  away ; 
And  never  a  whisper  comes  to  me, 

And  never  a  word  to  say ; 


428  ADDITIONAL    POEMS 

But,  if  it's  parting  more  endears, 

God  bring  him  back,  I  pray ; 
Or  my  heart  will  break  in  the  darkness 

Before  the  break  of  day. 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary 

My  rosary  of  hours, 
Until  an  hour  shall  bring  to  me 

The  hope  of  all  the  flowers  .  .  . 
I  tell  my  rosary  of  hours, 

For  O,  my  love's  away ; 
And  —  a  dream  may  bring  him  back  to  me 

About  the  break  of  day. 

Alfred  Noyes 

cccci 
SONG  OF  HANRAHAN   THE  RED 

Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 

The  song  is  in  my  blood,  night  and  day ; 
We  will  pluck  a  scented  petal  from  the  Rose  upon 
the  Rood 

Where  Love  lies  bleeding  on  the  way ; 
We  will  listen  to  the  linnet  and  watch  the  waters 
leap, 

When  the  clouds  go  dreaming  by, 
And  under  the  wild  roses  and  the  stars  we  will  sleep 

And  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

We  shall  understand  the  mystery  that  none  has 
understood, 

We  shall  know  why  the  leafy  gloom  is  green ; 
Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood 

When  we  see  what  the  stars  have  seen ; 
We  have  heard  the  "hidden  song  of  the  soft  dews 
falling 

At  the  end  of  the  last  dark  sky, 
Where  all  the  sorrows  of  the  world  are  calling, 

We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  429 

They  are  calling,  calling,  Away,  come  away, 

And  we  know  not  whence  they  call ; 
For  the  song  is  in  our  hearts,  we  hear  it  night  and 
day, 

As  the  deep  tides  rise  and  fall : 
Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood, 

While  the  hours  and  the  years  roll  by ; 
vVe  have  heard  it,  we  have  heard,  but  we  have  not 
understood, 

We  must  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

The  wind  may  beat  upon  us,  the  rain  may  blind 

our  eyes, 

The  leaves  may  fall  beneath  the  winter's  wing ; 
But  we  shall  hear  the  music  of  the  dream  that  never 

dies ; 

And  we  shall  know  the  secret  of  the  spring ; 
We  shall  know  how  all  the  blossoms  of  evil  and  of 

good 

Are  mingled  in  the  meadows  of  the  sky- 
And  then  —  if  Death  can  find  us  in  the  heart  of 

the  wood, 
We  shall  wander  on  together,  you  and  I. 

Alfred  Noyes 

ccccn 
THE  WEST  WIND 

It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds'  cries ; 
I  never  hear  the  west  wind  but  tears  are  in  my  eyes ; 
For  it  comes  from  the  west  lands,  the  old  brown  hills, 
And  April's  in  the  west  wind,  and  daffodils. 

It's  a  fine  land,  the  west  land,  for  hearts  as  tired  as 

mine, 
Apple  orchards  blossom  there,  and  the  air's  like 

wine. 
There  is  cool  green  grass  there,  where  men  may  lie 

at  rest, 
And  the  thrushes  are  in  song  there,  fluting  from  the 

nest. 


430  ADDITIONAL   POEMS 

"  Will  you  not  come  home,  brother  ?     You  have  been 

long  away. 

It's  April,  and  blossom  time,  and  white  is  the  spray  • 

And  bright  is  the  sun,  brother,  and  warm  is  the  rain. 

*   Will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  home  to  us 

again? 

The  young  corn  is  green,  brother,  where  the  rabbits 

run; 
It's  blue  sky,  and  white  clouds,  and  warm  rain  and 

sun. 
It's  song  to  a  man's  soul,  brother,  fire  to  a  man's 

brain, 
To  hear  the  wild  bees  and  see  the  merry  spring 

again. 

Larks  are  singing  in  the  west,  brother,  above  the 

green  wheat, 
So  will  you  not  come  home,  brother,  and  rest  your 

tired  feet? 
I've  a  balm  for  bruised  hearts,  brother,  sleep  for 

aching  eyes," 
Says  the  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  birds' 

cries. 

It's  the  white  road  westwards  is  the  road  I  must 

tread 
To  the  green  grass,  the  cool  grass,  and  rest  for  heart 

and  head, 
To  the  violets  and  the  brown  brooks  and  the 

thrushes'  song 
In  the  fine  land,  the  west  land,  the  land  where  I 

belong. 

John  Masefield 

ccccm 
THE  GOLDEN  CITY  OF  ST.  MARY 

Out  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way, 
Is  a  sleepy  blue  laguna  which  widens  to  a  bay, 
And  there's  the  Blessed  City  —  so  the  sailors  say  — 
The  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  431 

It's  built  of  fair  marble  —  white  —  without  a  stain, 
And  in  the  cool  twilight  when  the  sea-winds  wane 
The  bells  chime  faintly,  like  a  soft,  warm  rain, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Among  the  green  palm-trees  where  the  fire-flies 

shine, 

Are  the  white  tavern  tables  where  the  gallants  dine, 
Singing  slow  Spanish  songs  like  old  mulled  wine, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

Oh  I'll  be  shipping  sunset- wards  and  westward- 

ho 
Through  the  green  toppling  combers  a-shattering 

into  snow, 

Till  I  come  to  quiet  moorings  and  a  watch  below, 
In  the  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary. 

John  Masefield 

cccciv 
ROADWAYS 

One  road  leads  to  London, 

One  road  runs  to  Wales, 
My  road  leads  me  seawards 

To  the  white  dipping  sails. 

One  road  leads  to  the  river, 

As  it  goes  singing  slow ; 
My  road  leads  to  shipping, 

Where  the  bronzed  sailors  go. 

Leads  me,  lures  me,  calls  me 

To  salt  green  tossing  sea ; 
A  road  without  earth's  road-dust 

Is  the  right  road  for  me. 

A  wet  road  heaving,  shining, 
And  wild  with  seagull's  cries, 

A  mad  salt  sea-wind  blowing 
The  salt  spray  in  my  eyes. 


432  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

My  road  calls  me,  lures  me 
West,  east,  south,  and  north; 

Most  roads  lead  men  homewards, 
My  road  leads  me  forth 

To  add  more  miles  to  the  tally 

Of  grey  miles  left  behind 
In  quest  of  that  one  beauty 

God  put  me  here  to  find. 

John  Masefield 

ccccv 
SEA-FEVER 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and 

the  sky, 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  tall  ship  and  a  star  to  steer  her  by, 
And  the  wheel's  kick  and  the  wind's  song  and  the 

white  sail's  shaking, 
And  a  grey  mist  on  the  sea's  face  and  a  grey  dawn 

breaking. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again,  for  the  call  of  the 

running  tide 

Is  a  wild  call  and  a  clear  call  that  may  not  be  denied ; 
And  all  I  ask  is  a  windy  day  with  the  white  clouds 

flying, 
And  the  flung  spray  and  the  blown  spume,  and  the 

sea-gulls  crying. 

I  must  down  to  the  seas  again  to  the  vagrant  gypsy 
life, 

To  the  gull's  way  and  the  whale's  way  where  the 
wind's  like  a  whetted  knife ; 

And  all  I  ask  is  a  merry  yarn  from  a  laughing  fellow- 
rover, 

And  quiet  sleep  and  a  sweet  dream  when  the  long 
trick's  over. 

John  Masefield 


ADDITIONAL   POEMS  433 

CCCCVI 

THE  LAKE  ISLE  OF  INNISFREE 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree, 

And  a  small  cabin  build  there,  of  clay  and  wattles 

made ; 
Nine  bean  rows  will  I  have  there,  a  hive  for  the 

honey-bee, 
And  live  alone  in  the  bee-loud  glade. 

And  I  shall  have  some  peace  there,  for  peace  comes 

dropping  slow, 
Dropping  from  the  veils  of  morning  to  where  the 

cricket  sings ; 
There  midnight's  all  a-glimmer,  and  noon  a  purple 

glow, 
And  evening  full  of  the  linnet's  wings. 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  for  always  night  and  day 
I   hear  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by 

the  shore ; 
While  I  stand  on  the  roadway,  or  on  the  pavements 

gray, 
I  hear  it  in  the  deep  heart's  core. 

William  Butler  Yeats 


if 


tt 


NOTES 
INDEX  OF  WRITERS 

AND 

INDEX    OF    FIRST   LINES 


NOTES 
(1861-1891) 

Summary  of  Book  First 

THE  Elizabethan  Poetry,  as  it  is  rather  vaguely  termed,  forms 
the  substance  of  this  Book,  which  contains  pieces  from  Wyat 
under  Henry  VIII  to  Shakespeare  midway  through  the 
reign  of  James  I,  and  Drummond  who  carried  on  the  early 
manner  to  a  still  later  period.  There  is  here  a  wide  range  of 
style  ; — from  simplicity  expressed  in  a  language  hardly  yet 
broken -in  to  verse, — through  the  pastoral  fancies  and  Italian 
conceits  of  the  strictly  Elizabethan  time, — to  the  passionate 
reality  of  Shakespeare  :  yet  a  general  uniformity  of  tone  pre- 
vails. Few  readers  can  fail  to  observe  the  natural  sweetn3ss 
of  the  verse,  the  single-hearted  straightforwardness  of  the 
thoughts : — nor  less,  the  limitation  of  subject  to  the  many 
phases  of  one  passion,  which  then  characterized  our  lyrical 
poetry, — unless  when,  as  in  especial  with  Shakespeare,  the 
'purple  light  of  Love'  is  tempered  by  a  spirit  of  sterner 
reflection.  For  the  didactic  verse  of  the  century,  although 
lyrical  in  form,  yet  very  rarely  rises  to  the  pervading  emotion, 
the  golden  cadence,  pi-oper  to  the  lyric. 

It  should  be  observed  that  this  and  the  following  Summaries 
apply  in  the  main  to  the  Collection  here  presented,  in  which 
(besides  its  restriction  to  Lyrical  Poetry)  a  strictly  representa- 
tive or  historical  Anthology  has  not  been  aimed  at.  Great 
excellence,  in  human  art  as  in  human  chai-acter,  has  from  the 
beginning  of  things  been  even  more  uniform  than  mediocrity, 
by  virtue  of  the  closeness  of  its  approach  to  Natui-e  :-  and  so 
far  as  the  standard  of  Excellence  kept  in  view  has  been 
attained  in  this  volume,  a  comparative  absence  of  extreme 
or  temporary  phases  in  style,  a  similarity  of  tone  and  manner, 
will  be  found  throughout : — something  neither  modern  nor 
ancient,  but  true  and  speaking  to  the  heart  of  man  alike 
throughout  all  ages. 


438 


NOTES 


PAGE  NO. 

2  3     whist  :  hushed,  quieted. 

—  4  Rouse  Memnon's  mother  :  Awaken  the  Dawn  from  the 
dark  Earth  and  the  clouds  where  she  is  resting.  This 
is  one  of  that  limited  class  of  early  inythes  which 
may  be  reasonably  interpreted  as  representations  of 
natural  phenomena.  Aurora  in  the  old  mythology  is 
mother  of  Mernnon  (the  East),  and  wife  of  Tithonus 
(the  appearances  of  Earth  and  Sky  during  the  last 
hours  of  Night).  She  leaves  him  every  morning  in 
renewed  youth,  to  prepare  the  way  for  Phoebus  (the 
Sun),  whilst  Tithonus  remains  in  perpetual  old  age 
and  grayness. 

3  —    1.  23  by  Peneux'  stream  :  Phoebus  loved  the  Nymph 

Daphne  whom  he  met  by  the  river  Peneus  in  the  vale 
of  Tempe.  L.  27  Amphion's  lyre  :  He  was  said  to 
have  built  the  walls  of  Thebes  to  the  sound  of  his 
music.  L.  35  Night  like  a  drunkard  reels  :  Compare 
Romeo  and  Juliet,  Act  II,  Scene  3  :  'The  grey-eyed 
morn  smiles,'  &c.  —  It  should  be  added  that  three 
lines,  which  appeared  hopelessly  misprinted,  have 
been  omitted  in  this  Poem. 

4  6    Time's    chest  :    in  which  he    is    figuratively    sup- 

posed to  lay  up  past  treasures.  So  in  Troilus, 
Act  III,  Scene  3,  'Time  hath  a  wallet  at  his 
back  '  &c.  In  the  Arcadia,  chest  is  used  to  signify 
tomb. 

5  7    A  fine  exampl  e  of  the  high  wrought  and  conventional 

Elizabethan  Pastoralism,  which  it  would  be  un- 
reasonable to  criticize  on  the  ground  of  the  un- 
shepherdlike  or  unreal  character  of  some  images 
suggested.  Stanza  6  was  perhaps  inserted  by  Izaak 
Walton. 

6  8    This  beautiful  ]yric  is  one  of  several  recovered  from 

the  very  rare  Elizabethan  Song-books,  for  the  publi- 
ca,tion  of  which  our  thanks  are  due  to  Mr.  A.  H. 
Bullen  (1887,  1888). 

8  12    One  stanza  has  been  here  omitted,  in  accordance 

with  the  principle  noticed  in  the  Preface.  Similar 
omissions  occur  in  a  few  other  poems.  The  more 
serious  abbreviation  by  which  it  has  been  attempted 
to  bring  Crashaw's  '  Wishes  '  and  Shelley's  '  Euga- 
nean  Hills,'  with  one  or  two  more,  within  the  scheme 
of  this  selection,  is  commended  with  much  diffidence 
to  the  judgment  of  readers  acquainted  with  the 
original  pieces. 

9  13    Sidney's  poetry  is  singularly  unequal  ;  his  short  life, 

his  frequent  absorption  in  public  employment, 
hindered  doubtless  the  development  of  his  genius. 
His  great  contemporary  fame,  second  only,  it 
appeai-s,  to  Spenser's,  has  been  hence  obscured. 
At  times  he  is  heavy  and  even  prosaic  ;  his 
simplicity  is  rude  and  bare  ;  his  verse  unmelodious. 
These,  however,  are  the  'defects  of  his  merits.'  In 


NOTES  439 

PAOl  NO. 

a  certain  depth  and  chivalry  of  feeling,— in  the  rare 
and  noble  quality  of  disinterestedness  (to  put  it  in 
one  word), — he  has  no  superior,  hardly  perhaps  an 
equal,  amongst  our  Poets ;  and  after  or  beside 
Shakespeare's  Sonnets,  his  Astrophel  and  Stella,  in 
the  Editor's  judgment,  offers  the  most  intense  and 
powerful  picture  of  the  passion  of  love  in  the  whole 
range  of  our  poetry. — Hundreds  of  years  :  '  The  very 
rapture  of  love,'  says  Mi*.  Ruskin  ;  'A  lover  like 
this  does  not  believe  his  mistress  can  grow  old 
or  die.' 

12  19  Readers  who  have  visited  Italy  will  be  reminded  of 
more  than  one  picture  by  this  gorgeous  Vision  of 
Beauty,  equally  sublime  and  pure  in  its  Paradisaical 
naturalness.  Lodge  wrote  it  on  a  voyage  to  '  the 
Islands  of  Terceras  and  the  Canaries ; '  and  he 
seems  to  have  caught,  in  those  southern  seas,  no 
small  portion  of  the  qualities  which  marked  the 
almost  contemporary  Art  of  Venice, — the  glory  and 
the  glow  of  Veronese,  Titian,  or  Tintoret. — From  the 
same  romance  is  No.  71  :  a  charming  picture  in  the 
purest  style  of  the  later  Italian  Renaissance. 
The  clear  (1.  1)  is  the  crystalline  or  outermost 
heaven  of  the  old  cosmography.  For  a  fair  there's 
fairer  nonei  If  you  desire  a  Beauty,  there  is  none 
more  beautiful  than  Rosaline. 

14  22    Another  gracious  lyric  from  an  Elizabethan  Song- 

book,  first  reprinted  (it  is  believed)  in  Mr.  W, 
J.  Linton's  '  Rare  Poems,'  in  1883. 

15  23    that  fair  thou  owest  :  that  beauty  thou  ownest. 

16  25     From  one  of  the  three  Song-books  of  T.  Campion, 

who  appears  to  have  been  author  of  the  words 
which  he  set  to  music.  His  merit  as  a  lyrical  poet 
(recognized  in  his  own  time,  but  since  then  for- 
gotten) has  been  again  brought  to  light  by  Mr. 
Bullen's  taste  and  research  :  swerving  (st.  2)  is  his 
conjecture  for  changing  in  the  text  of  1601. 

20  31  the  star  Whose  worth's  unknown  although  his  height 
be  taken:  apparently,.  Whose  stellar  influence  is 
uncalculated,  although  his  angular  altitude  from  the 
plane  of  the  astrolabe  or  artificial  horizon  used  by 
astrologers  has  been  determined. 

20  32  This  lovely  song  appears,  as  here  given,  in  Putten- 
ham's  '  Arte  of  English  Poesie,'  1589.  A  longer  and 
inferior  form  was  published  in  the  '  Arcadia '  of 
1590  ;  but  Puttenham's  prefatory  words  clearly  assign 
his  version  to  Sidney's  own  authorship. 

23  37    keel :  keep  cooler  by  stirring  round. 

24  39    expense :  loss. 
—    40    prease  :  press. 

25  41     Nativity,  once  in  the  main  of  lipJ>.t ;  when  a  star  has 

^sen  and  entered  on  the  full  stream  of  K?)^  '— 
another  of  the  astrological  phrases  no  longer  familiar. 


440  NOTES 

•AGE  NO. 

Crooked  eclipses :  as  coming  athwart  the  Sun's 
apparent  course. 

Wordsworth,  thinking  probably  of  tlie  '  Venus'  and 
the  '  Lucrece,'  said  finely  of  Shakespeare  ;  '  Shake- 
speare could  not  have  written  an  Epic ;  he  would 
have  died  of  plethora  of  thought.'  This  prodigality 
of  nature  is  exemplified  equally  in  his  Sonnets.  The 
copious  selection  here  given  (which  from  the  wealth 
of  the  material,  required  greater  consideration  than 
any  other  portion  of  the  Editor's  task),— contains 
many  that  will  not  be  fully  felt  and  understood  with- 
out some  earnestness  of  thought  on  the  reader's  part. 
But  he  is  not  likely  to  regret  the  labour. 
26  42  upon  misprision  growing  :  either,  granted  in  error, 
or,  on  the  growth  of  contempt. 

—  43    With  the  tone  of  this  Sonnet  compare  Hamlet's 

'  Give  me  that  man  That  is  not  passion's  slave '  &c. 
Shakespeare's  writings  show  the  deepest  sensitive- 
ness to  passion  : — hence  the  attraction  he  felt  in  the 
contrasting  effects  of  apathy. 

26  44  grame:  sorrow.  Renaissance  influences  long  im- 
peded the  return  of  English  poets  to  the  charming 
realism  of  this  and  a  few  other  poems  by  Wyat. 

28  45    Pandion    in    the    ancient    fable    was    father    to 

Philomela. 

29  47    In  the  old  legend  it  is  now  Philomela,  now  Procne 

(the  swallow)  who  suffers  violence  from  Tereus.  This 
song  has  a  fascination  in  its  calm  intensity  of 
passion ;  that  '  sad  earnestness  and  vivid  exact- 
ness' which  Cardinal  Newman  ascribes  to  the 
master-pieces  of  ancient  poetry. 

31  50    proved :  approved. 

—  51    censures  :  judges, 

—  52    Exquisite  in  its  equably-balanced  metrical  flow. 

32  53    Judging  by  its  style,  this  beautiful  example  of  old 

simplicity  and  feeling  may,  perhaps,  be  referred  to 
the  earlier  years  of  Elizabeth.  Late  forgot :  lately. 

35  57    Printed  in  a  little  Anthology  by  Nicholas  Breton, 

1597.  It  is,  however,  a  stronger  and  finer  piece  of 
work  than  any  known  to  be  his.— St.  1  silly :  simple  ; 
dole:  grief;  chief:  chiefly.  St.  3  //  there  be  .  .  .  : 
obscure  :  Perhaps,  if  there  be  any  who  speak  harshly 
of  thee,  thy  pain  may  plead  for  pity  from  Fate. 
This  poem,  with  60  and  143,  are  each  graceful 
variations  of  a  long  popular  theme. 

36  58    That  busy  archer :  Cupid.     Descries :  used  actively  ; 

points  out. — '  The  last  line  of  this  poem  is  a  little 
obscured  by  transposition.  He  means,  Do  they  call 
ungratefulness  there  a  virtue  ? '  (C.  Lamb). 
87  59  White  lope:  suggested,  Mr.  Bullen  notes,  by  a 
passage  in  Propertius  (iii,  20)  describing  Spirits  in 
the  lower  world : 

Vobiscum  est  lope,  vobiscum  Candida  Tyro. 


NOTES  441 

PAGE   NO. 

38  62    cypres  or  cyprus, — used  by  the  old  writers  for  crape 

whether  from  the  French  crespe  or  from  the  Island 
whence  it  was  imported.  Its  accidental  similarity 
in  spelling  to  cypress  has,  here  and  in  Milton's 
Penseroso,  probably  confused  readers. 

39  63    ramage  :  confused  noise. 

41  66  'I  never  saw  anything  like  this  funeral  dirge,'  says 
Charles  Lamb,  'except  the  ditty  which  reminds  Fer- 
dinand of  his  drowned  father  in  the  Tempest.  As 
that  is  of  the  water,  watery  ;  so  this  is  of  the  earth, 
earthy.  Both  have  that  intenseness  of  feeling,  whici 
seems  to  resolve  itself  into  the  element  which  it 
contemplates.' 

43  70    Paraphrased  from  an  Italian  madrigal. 

Noil  so  couoscer  poi 

Se  voi  le  rose,  o  sian  le  rose  in  vol. 

44  72    crystal :  fairness. 

45  73    stare :  star  ling. 

—  74  This  '  Spousal  Verse '  was  written  in  honour  of  the 
Ladies  Elizabeth  and  Katherine  Somerset.  Nowhere 
has  Spenser  more  emphatically  displayed  himself  as 
the  very  poet  of  Beauty  :  The  Renaissance  impulse 
in  England  is  here  seen  at  its  highest  and  purest. 
The  genius  of  Spenser,  like  Chaucer's,  does  itself 
justice  only  in  poems  of  some  length.  Hence  it  is 
impossible  to  represent  it  in  this  volume  by  other 
pieces  of  equal  merit,  but  of  impracticable  dimen- 
sions. And  the  same  applies  to  such  poems  as  the 
Lover's  Lament  or  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

46  —    entrailed :  twisted.     Feateously :  elegantly. 

48  —    shend :  shame. 

49  —    a  noble  peer :  Robert  Devereux,  second  Lord  Essex, 

then  at  the  height  of  his  brief  triumph  after  taking 
Cadiz  :  hence  the  allusion  following  to  the  Pillars  of 
Hercules,  placed  near  Gades  by  ancient  legend. 
,—    —    Etisa:  Elizabeth. 

50  —    twins  of  Jove:  the  stars  Castor  and  Pollux:  baldric. 

belt ;  the  zodiac. 

52  79  This  lyric  may  with  very  high  probability  be  assigned 
to  Campion,  in  whose  first  Book  of  Airs  it  appeared 
(1601).  The  evidence  sometimes  quoted  ascribing  it 
to  Lord  Bacon  appears  to  be  valueless. 


Summary  of  Book  Second. 

THIS  division,  embracing  generally  the  latter  eighty  years  of 
the  Seventeenth  century,  contains  the  close  of  our  Early 
poetical  style  and  the  commencement  of  the  Modern.  In 
Dryden  we  see  the  first  master  of  the  new  :  in  Milton,  whose 
genius  dominates  here  as  Shakespeare's  in  the  former  book,— 
the  crown  and  consummation  of  the  early  period.  Their  splen- 
A  A 


442  NOTES 

did  Odes  are  far  in  advance  of  any  prior  attempts,  Spenser's 
excepted  :  they  exhibit  that  wider  and  grander  range  which 
years  and  experience  and  the  struggles  of  the  time  conferred 
on  Poetry.  Our  Muses  now  give  expression  to  political  feel- 
ing, to  religious  thought,  to  a  high  philosophic  statesmanship 
in  writers  such  as  Marvell,  Herbert,  and  Wotton  :  whilst  in 
Marvell  and  Milton,  again,  we  find  noble  attempts,  hitherto 
rare  in  our  literature,  at  pure  description  of  nature,  destined 
in  our  own  age  to  be  continued  and  equalled.  Meanwhile  the 
poetry  of  simple  passion,  although  before  1660  often  deformed 
by  verbal  fancies  and  conceits  of  thought,  and  afterwards  by 
levity  and  an  artificial  tone,— produced  in  Herrick  and  Waller 
some  charming  pieces  of  more  finished  art  than  the  Eliza- 
bethan :  until  in  the  courtly  compliments  of  Sedley  it  seems 
to  exhaust  itself,  and  lie  almost  dormant  for  the  hundred  years 
between  the  days  of  Wither  and  Suckling  and  the  days  of 
Burns  and  Cowper. — That  the  change  from  our  early  style  to 
the  modern  brought  with  it  at  first  a  loss  of  nature  and 
simplicity  is  undeniable :  yet  the  bolder  and  wider  scope 
which  Poetry  took  between  1620  and  1700,  and  the  successful 
efforts  then  made  to  gain  greater  clearness  in  expression,  in 
their  results  have  been  no  slight  compensation. 


PAGE  NO. 

58  85    1.  8  whist :  hushed. 

—  —  1.  32  than  :  obsolete  for  then :  Pan  ."  used  here  for  the 
Lord  of  all. 

59  —    1.  38  consort;  Milton's  spelling  of  this  word,  here 

and  elsewhere,  has  been  followed,  as  it  is  uncertain 
whether  he  used  it  in  the  sense  of  accompanying,  or 
simply  for  concert. 

61  —    1.  21  Lars  and  Lemures  :  household  gods  and  spirits 

of  relations  dead.  Flamens  (1.  24)  Roman  priests. 
That  twice-batter'd  god  (1.  29)  Dagou. 

62  —    1.  6   Osiris,  the  Egyptian  god  of  Agriculture  (here, 

perhaps  by  confusion  with  Apis,  figured  as  a  Bull), 
was  torn  to  pieces  by  Typho  and  embalmed  after 
death  in  a  sacred  chest.  This  mythe,  reproduced  in 
Syria  and  Greece  in  the  legend  s  of  Thammuz,  Adonis, 
and  perhaps  Absyrtus,  may  have  originally  signified 
the  annual  death  of  the  Sun  or  the  Year  under  the  in- 
fluences of  the  winter  darkness.  Horus,  the  son  of 
Osiris,  as  the  New  Year,  in  his  turn  overcomes  Typho. 
L.  8  unshower'd  grass  :  as  watered  by  the  Nile  only. 
L.  33  youngest-teemed  :  last-born.  Bright-harness 'd 
(1.  37)  armoured. 

64  87  The  Late  Massacre  :  the  Vaudois  persecution,  carried 
on  in  1655  by  the  Duke  of  Savoy.  No  more  mighty 
Sonnet  than  this  'collect  in  verse,'  as  it  has  been 
justly  named,  probably  can  be  found  in  any  language. 
Readers  should  observe  that  it  is  constructed  on  the 
original  Italian  or  Provencal  model.  This  form,  in  a 


NOTES  443 

PAGE   NO. 

language  such  as  ours;not  affluent  in  rhyme,  presents 
great  difficulties  ;  the  rhymes  are  apt  to  be  forced,  or 
the  substance  common  place.  But,  when  successfully 
handled,  it  has  a  unity  and  a  beauty  of  effect  which 
place  the  strict  Sonnet  above  the  less  compact  and 
less  lyrical  systems  adopted  by  Shakespeare,  Sidney, 
Spenser,  and  other  Elizabethan  poets. 

85  88  Cromwell  returned  from  Ireland  in  1650,  and  Marvell 
probably  wrote  his  lines  soon  after,  whilst  living  at 
Nunappleton  in  the  Fairfax  household.  It  is  hence 
not  surprising  that  (st.  21 — 24)  he  should  have  been 
deceived  by  Cromwell's  professed  submissiveness  to 
the  Parliament  which,  when  it  declined  to  register 
his  decrees,  he  expelled  by  armed  violence  : — one 
despotism,  by  natural  law,  replacing  another.  The 
poet's  insight  has,  however,  truly  prophesied  that 
result  in  his  last  two  lines. 

This  Ode,  beyond  doubt  one  of  the  finest  in  our  lan- 
guage, and  more  in  Milton's  style  than  has  been 
reached  by  any  other  poet,  is  occasionally  obscure 
from  imitation  of  the  condensed  Latin  syntax.  The 
meaning  of  st.  5  is  '  rivalry  or  hostility  are  the  same 
to  a  lofty  spirit,  and  limitation  more  hateful  than  op- 
position.' The  allusion  in  st.  11  is  to  the  old  physical 
doctrines  of  the  non-existence  of  a  vacuum  and  the 
impenetrability  of  matter: — in  st.  17  to  the  omen 
traditionally  connected  with  the  foundation  of  the 
Capitol  at  Rome  '.—forced,  fated.  The  ancient  belief 
that  certain  years  in  life  complete  natural  periods 
and  are  hence  peculiarly  exposed  to  death,  is  intro- 
duced in  st.  26  by  the  word  climacteric. 

68  89     Lycidas :  The  person  here  lamented  is  Milton's  col- 

lege contemporary,  Edward  King,  drowned  in  1637 
whilst  crossing  from  Chester  to  Ireland. 
Strict  Pastoral  Poetry  was  first  written  or  perfected 
by  the  Dorian  Greeks  settled  in  Sicily  :  but  the  con- 
ventional use  of  it,  exhibited  more  magnificently  in 
Lycidas  than  in  any  other  pastoral,  is  apparently  of 
Roman  origin.  Milton,  employing  the  noble  free- 
dom of  a  great  artist,  has  here  united  ancient  mytho- 
logy, with  what  may  be  called  the  modern  mythology 
of  Camus  and  Saint  Peter,— to  direct  Christian 
images.  Yet  the  poem,  if  it  gains  in  historical  in- 
terest, suffers  in  poetry  by  the  harsh  intrusion  of  the 
writer's  narrow  and  violent  theological  politics. — 
The  metrical  structure  of  this  glorious  elegy  is  partly 
derived  from  Italian  models. 

69  —    1.  11  Sisters  of  the  sacred  icell :  the  Muses,  said  to 

frequent  the  Pierian  Spring  at  the  foot  of  Mount 
Olympus. 

70  —    1.  10  Mona :  Anglesea,  called  by  the  Welsh  poets,  the 

Dark  Island,  from  its  dense  forests.     Deva  (1. 11) the 
Dee :  a  river  which  may  have  derived  its  magical 
A  A   2 


444  NOTES 

PAGE  NO. 

character  from  Celtic  traditions :  it  was  long  the 
boundary  of  Briton  and  English. — These  places  are 
introduced,  as  being  near  the  scene  of  the  shipwreck. 
Orpheus  (1.  14)  was  torn  to  pieces  by  Thracian  women. 
Amaryllis  and  fifeaera  (1.  24,  25)  names  used  here  for 
the  love-idols  of  poets  :  as  ifamotta*  previously  for  a 
shepherd.  L.  31  the.  blind  Fury  :  Atropos,  fabled  to 
cut  the  thread  of  life. 

71  89  Arethuse  (1.  l)ard  Mincius  :  Sicilian  and  Italian 
waters  here  alluded  to  as  representing  the  pastoral 
poetry  of  Theocritus  and  Vergil.  L.  4  oat :  pipe, 
used  here  like  Collins'  oaten  stop  1.  1,  No.  186,  for 
Song.  L.  12  Hippotades :  Aeolus,  god  of  the  Winds. 
Panope  (1. 15)  a  Nereid.  Certain  names  of  local  deities 
in  the  Hellenic  mythology  render  some  feature  in  the 
natural  landscape,  which  the  Greeks  studied  and 
analysed  with  their  usual  unequalled  insight  and 
feeling.  Panope  seems  to  express  the  boundlessness 
of  the  ocean -horizon  when  seen  from  a  height,  as 
compared  with  the  limited  sky-line  of  the  land  in 
hilly  countries  such  as  Greece  or  Asia  Minor.  Camus 
(1.  19)  the  Cam  :  put  for  King's  University.  The  san- 
guine flower  (1.  22)  the  Hyacinth  of  the  ancients  : 
probably  our  Iris.  The  Pilot  (1  25)  Saint  Peter, 
figuratively  introduced  as  the  head  of  the  Church  on 
earth,  to  foretell  'the  ruin  of  our  corrupted  clergy,' 
as  Milton  regarded  them,  '  then  in  their  heighth' 
under  Laud's  primacy. 

'**  —  1.1  scrannel  :  screeching  ;  apparently  Milton's  coin- 
age (Masson).  L.  5  the  u-o/f :  the  Puritans  of  the 
time  were  excited  to  alarm  and  persecution  by  a  few 
conversions  to  Roman  Catholicism  which  had 
recently  occurred.  Alpheus  (1.  9)  a  stream  in  Southern 
Greece,  supposed  to  flow  uiiderseas  to  join  the 
Arethuse.  Swart  star  (1.  15)  the  Dog-star,  called 
swarthy  because  its  heliacal  rising  in  ancient  times 
occurred  soon  after  midsummer  .  1.  19  rathe :  early. 
L.  36  moist  vows :  either  tearful  prayers,  or  prayers  for 
one  at  sea.  Bellerus  (1.  37)  a  giant,  apparently  created 
here  by  Milton  to  personify  Belerium,  the  ancient 
title  of  the  Land's  End.  The  great  Vision : — the  story 
was  that  the  Archangel  Michael  had  appeared  on 
the  rock  by  Marazion  in  Mount's  Bay  which  bears 
his  name.  Milton  calls  on  him  to  turn  his  eyes  from 
the  south  homeward,  and  to  pity  Lycidas,  if  his 
body  has  drifted  into  the  troubled  waters  off  the 
^  Land'  s  End.  Finisterre  being  the  land  due  south 

of  Marazion,  two  places  in  that  district  (then  through 
our  trade  with  Corurma  probably  less  unfamiliar 
to  English  ears),  are  named, — Namancos  now  Mujio 
in  Galicia,  Bayona  north  of  the  Minho,  or  perhaps  a 
fortified  rock  (one  of  the  Cies  Islands)  not  unlike 
Saint  Michael's  Mount,  at  the  entrance  of  Vigo  Bay. 


NOTES  445 

PAGE   NO. 

73  89  1.  6  ore :  rays  of  golden  light.  Dc^ic  lay  (1.  25) 
Sicilian,  pastoral. 

75  93  The  assault  was  an  attack  on  London  expected  in 
1642,  when  the  troops  of  Charles  I.  reached  Brent- 
ford. '  Written  on  his  door '  was  in  the  original  title 
of  this  sonnet.  Milton  was  then  living  in  Aldersgate 
Street. 

The  Emathian  Conqueror :  When  Thebes  was  de- 
stroyed (B  c.  335)  and  the  citizens  massacred  by 
thousands,  Alexander  ordered  the  house  of  Pindav 
to  be  spared. 

?  —  1.  2,  the  repeated  air  Of  sad  Electrons  poet :  Plutaroh 
has  a  tale  that  when  the  Spartan  confederacy  in  404 
B.C.  took  Athens,  a  proposal  to  demolish  it  was 
rejected  through  the  effect  produced  on  the  com- 
manders by  hearing  part  of  a  chorus  from  the  Electro. 
of  Euripides  sung  at  a  feast.  There  is  however  no 
apparent  congruity  between  the  lines  qvioted  (107, 
168  Ed.  Dindorf)  and  the  result  ascribed  to  them. 

—  95  A  fine  example  of  a  peculiar  class  of  Poetry  ; — that 
written  by  thoughtful  men  who  practised  this  Art 
but  little.  Jeremy  Taylor,  Bishop  Berkeley,  Dr. 
Johnson,  Lord  Macaulay,  have  left  similar  speci- 
mens. 

78  98    These  beautiful  verses  should  be  compared   with 

Wordsworth's  great  Ode  on  Immortality  :  and  a  copy 
of  Vaughan's  very  rare  little  volume  appears  in  the 
list  of  Wordsworth  s  library. — In  imaginative  in- 
tensity, Vaughan  stands  beside  his  contemporary 
Marvell. 

79  99     Favonius  :  the  spring  wind. 

80  100     Themis  :    the    goddess    of    justice.      Skinner   was 

grandson  by  his  mother  to  Sir  E.  ,Coke  : — hence, 
as  pointed  out  by  Mr.  Keightley,  Milton's  allusion 
to  the  bench.  L.  8 :  Sweden  was  then  at  war  with 
Poland,  and  France  with  the  Spanish  Netherlands. 

82  103  1.  28  Sidaeian  showers:  either  in  allusion  to  the 
conversations  in  the  '  Arcadia,'  or  to  Sidney  himsel* 
as  a  model  of  '  gentleness '  in  spirit  and  demeanour. 

85  105  Delicate  humour,  delightfully  united  to  thought,  at 
once  simple  and  subtle.  It  is  full  of  conceit  and 
paradox,  but  these  are  imaginative,  not  as  with  most 
of  our  Seventeenth  Century  poets,  intellectual  only. 

88  110     Elizabeth  of  Bohemia :    Daughter  to  James   I,  and 

ancestor  of  Sophia  of  Hanover.  These  lines  are  a 
fine  specimen  of  gallant  and  courtly  compliment. 

89  111     Lady  M.  Ley  was  daughter  to  Sir  J  Ley,  afterwards 

Earl  of  Marlborough,  who  died  March,  1629,  coin- 
cidently  with  the  dissolution  of  the  third  Parliament 
of  Charles'  reign.  Hence  Milton  poetically  compares 
his  death  to  that  of  the  Orator  Isocrates  of  Athena, 
after  Philip's  victory  in  328  B.C. 
93  118  A  masterpiece  of  humour,  grace,  and  gentle  feeling 


446 


NOTES 


all,  with  Herrick's  unfailing  art,  kept  precisely 
within  the  peculiar  key  which  he  chose, — or  Nature 
for  him, — in  his  Pastorals.  L.  2  the  god  unshorn: 
Imberbis  Apollo.  St.  2  beads  :  prayers. 

96  123  With  better  taste,  and  less  diffuseness,  Quarles 
might  (one  would  think)  have  retained  more  of  that 
high  place  which  he  held  in  popular  estimate  among 
his  contemporaries. 

99  197  From  Prison  :  to  which  his  active  support  of  Charles 
I  twice  brought  the  high -spirited  writer.  L.  7 
Gods  :  thus  in  the  original ;  Lovelace,  in  his  fanciful 
way,  making  here  a  mythological  allusion.  Birds, 
commonly  substituted,  is  without  authority.  St.  3, 
1.  1  committed ;  to  prison. 
100  128  St.  2  1.  4  blue-god:  Neptune. 

104  133     Waly  waly  :  an  exclamation  of  sorrow,  the  root  and 

the  pronunciation  of  which  are  preserved  in  the  word 
caterwaul.  Brae,  hillside :  burn,  brook :  busk, 
adorn.  Saint  Anton's  Well :  below  Arthur's  Seat 
by  Edinburgh.  Cramasie,  crimson. 

105  134    This  beautiful  example  of  early  simplicity  is  found 

in  a  Song-book  of  1620. 

106  135    burd,  maiden. 

107  136    corbies,  crows  '.fail,  turf  :  haine,  neck  ;  theek,  thatch. 

— If  not  in  their  origin,  in  their  present  form  this, 
with  the  preceding  poem  and  133,  appear  due  to  the 
Seventeenth  Century,  and  have  therefore  been  placed 
in  Book  II. 

108  137    The  poetical  and  the  prosaic,  after  Cowley's  fasnion, 

blend  curiously  in  this  deeply-felt  elegy. 

112  141     Perhaps  no  poem  in  this  collection  is  more  delicately 

fancied,  more  exquisitely  finished.  By  placing  his 
description  of  the  Fawn  in  a  young  girl's  mouth, 
Marvell  has,  as  it  were,  legitimated  that  abundance 
of  '  imaginative  hyperbole '  to  which  he  is  always 
partial  :  he  makes  us  feel  it  natural  that  a  maiden's 
favourite  should  be  whiter  than  milk,  sweeter  than 
sugar — 'lilies  without,  roses  within.'  The  poet's 
imagination  is  justified  in  its  seeming  extravagance 
by  the  intensity  and  unity  with  which  it  invests  his 
picture. 

113  142    The  remark  quoted  in  the  note  to  No.   65  applies 

equally  to  these  truly  wonderful  verses.  Marvell  here 
throws  himself  into  the  very  soul  of  the  Garden  with 
the  imaginative  intensity  of  Shelley  in  his  West 
Wind. — This  poem  appears  also  as  a  translation  in 
Marvell's  works.  The  most  striking  verses  in  it, 
here  quoted  as  the  book  is  rare,  answer  more  or  lesa 
to  stanzas  2  and  6  : — 

Alma  Quies,  teneo  te  !  et  te,  germana  Quietis, 
Simplicitas  !  vos  ergo  diu  per  templa,  per  urbeB 
Quaesivi,  regum  perque  alta  palatia,  frustra : 
Sed  vos  hortorum  per  opaca  silentia,  longe 
Celarunt  plantae  virides  et  concolor  umbra 


NOTES  447 

PAGE  NO. 

115  143    St.  3  tutties:  nosegays.    St.  4  silly:  simple. 

L' Allegro  and  11  Penseroso.  It  is  a  striking  proof  of 
Milton's  astonishing  power,  that  these,  the  earliest 
great  Lyrics  of  the  Landscape  in  our  language, 
should  still  remain  supreme  in  their  style  for 
range,  variety,  and  melodious  beauty.  The  Bright 
and  the  Thoughtful  aspects  of  Nature  and  of  >Life 
are  their  subjects :  but  each  is  preceded  by  a 
mythological  introduction  in  a  mixed  Classical  and 
Italian  manner.— With  that  of  I' Allegro  may  be  com- 
pared a  similar  mythe  in  the  first  Section  of  the 
first  Book  of  S.  Marmion's  graceful  Cupid  and 
Psyche,  1637. 

116  144    The  mountain-nymph;  compare  Wordsworth's  Sonnet, 

No.  254.  L.  38  is  in  apposition  to  the  preceding,  by 
a  syntactical  license  not  uncommon  with  Milton. 

118  —    1.  14   Cynosure;    the  Pole   Star.     Con/don,    Thyrsis, 

&c.  :  Shepherd  names  from  the  old  Idylls.  Rebeck 
(1.  28)  an  elementary  form  of  violin. 

119  —    1.  24  Jonson's  learned  sock :  His  comedies  are  deeply 

coloured  by  classical  study.  L.  28  Lydian  airs: 
used  here  to  express  a  light  and  festive  style  of 
ancient  music.  The  '  Lydian  Mode,'  one  of  the 
seven  original  Greek  Scales,  is  nearly  identical  with 
our  '  Major.' 

120  145     1.    3    bestead:   avail.     L.    19    starr'd   Ethiop  queen: 

Cassiopeia,  the  legendary  Queen  of  Ethiopia,  and 
thence  translated  amongst  the  constellations. 

121  —     Cynthia :   the   Moon :    Milton   seems   here  to  have 

transferred  to  her  chariot  the  dragons  anciently 
assigned  to  Demeter  and  to  Medea. 

122  —     Hermes,  called  Trismegistus,  a  mystical  writer  of  the 

Neo-Platonist  school.  L.  27  Thebes,  &c.  :  subjects 
of  Athenian  Tragedy.  Buskin'd  (1.  30)  tragic,  in 
opposition  to  sock  above.  L.  32  Musaeus :  a  poet  in 
Mythology.  L.  37  him  that  left  half-told:  Chaucer 
in  his  incomplete  '  Squire's  Tale.' 

123  —    great  bards :  Ariosto,  Tasso,  and  Spenser,  are  here 

presumably  intended.  L.  9  frounced :  curled.  The 
Attic  Boy  (1.  10)  Cephalus. 

124  146    Emigrants  supposed  to  be  driven  towards  America 

by  the  government  of  Charles  I. 

125  —    1.  9,  10.   But  apples,  &c.   A  fine  example  of  Marvell's 

imaginative  hyperbole. 
—  147    1.  6  concent :  harmony. 

128  149    A  lyric  of  a  strange,  fanciful,  yet  solemn  beauty  : — 

Cowley's  style  intensified  by  the  mysticism  of  Henry 
More. — St.  2  monument :  the  World. 

129  151     Entitled  '•  A  Song  in  Honour  of  St.  Cecilia's  Day 

1697.' 


448  NOTES 


Summary  of  Book  Third. 

It  is  more  difficult  to  characterize  the  English  Poetry  of  the 
Eighteenth  century  than  that  of  any  other.  For  it  was  an  age 
not  only  of  spontaneous  transition,  but  of  boli  experiment : 
it  includes  not  only  such  absolute  contrasts  as  distinguish 
the  '  Rape  of  the  Lock'  from  the  c Parish  Register,'  but  such 
vast  contemporaneous  differences  as  lie  between  Pope  and 
Collins,  Burns  and  Cowper.  Yet  we  may  clearly  trace  three 
lending  moods  or  tendencies : — the  aspects  of  courtly  or 
educated  life  represented  by  Pope  and  carried  to  e?  haustion 
by  his  followers ;  the  poetry  of  Nature  and  of  Man,  viewed 
through  a  cultivated,  and  at  the  same  time  an  impassioned 
frame  of  mind  by  Collins  and  Gray  : — lastly,  the  r:tudy  of  vivid 
and  simple  narrative,  including  natural  description,  begun  by 
Gay  and  Thomson,  pursued  by  Burns  and  others  in  the 
north,  and  established  in  England  by  Goldsmith,  Percy, 
Crabbe,  and  Cowper.  Great  varieties  in  style  accompanied 
these  diversities  in  aim  :  poets  could  not  always  distinguish 
the  manner  suitable  for  subjects  so  far  apart :  and  'he  union 
of  conventional  and  of  common  language,  exhibited  most  con- 
spicuously by  Burns,  has  given  a  tone  to  the  poetry  of  that 
century  which  is  better  explained  by  reference  to  its  historical 
origin  than  by  naming  it  artificial.  There  is,  again,  a  noble- 
ness of  thought,  a  courageous  aim  at  high  and,  in  a  strict 
sense  manly,  excellence  in  many  of  the  writers  :— nor  can  that 
period  be  justly  termed  tame  and  wanting  in  originality, 
which  produced  poems  such  as  Pope's  Satires,  Gray's  Odes 
and  Elegy,  the  ballads  of  Gay  and  Carey,  the  songs  of  Burns 
and  Cowper.  In  truth  Poetry  at  this,  as  at  all  times,  was 
a  more  or  less  unconscious  mirror  of  the  genius  of  the  age : 
and  the  many  complex  causes  which  made  the  Eighteenth 
century  the  turning-time  in  modern  European  civilization  are 
also  more  or  less  reflected  in  its  verse  An  intelligent  reader 
will  find  the  influence  of  Newton  as  markedly  in  the  poems  of 
Pope,  as  of  Elizabeth  in  the  plays  of  Shakespeare.  On 
this  great  subject,  however,  these  indications  must  here  be 
sufficient. 


PAGE  NO. 

134  153  We  have  no  poet  more  marked  by  rapture,  by  the 
ecstasy  which  Plato  held  the  note  of  genuine  inspira- 
tion, than  Collins.  Yet  but  twice  or  thrice  do  his 
lyrics  reach  that  simplicity,  that  sinceram  sermonis 
Attici  g<  atiam  to  which  this  ode  testifies  his  enthu- 
siastic devotion.  His  style,  as  his  friend  Dr. 
Johnson  truly  remarks,  was  obscure  ;  his  diction 
often  harsh  and  unskilfully  laboured  ;  he  struggles 
nobly  against  the  narrow,  artificial  manner  of  his  age, 
but  his  too  scanty  years  did  not  allow  him  to  reach 
perfect  mastery. 


NOTES  449 

PAGE  NO. 

St.  3  HyUa:  near  Syracuse.  Her  whose  .  .  .  woe: 
the  nightingale,  '  for  which  Sophocles  seems  to  have 
entertained  a  peculiar  fondness ' ;  Collins  here  refers 
to  the  famous  chorus  in  the  Oedipus  at  Colonus. 
St.  4  Cephisus :  the  stream  encircling  Athens  on  the 
north  and  west,  passing  Colonus.  St.  6  slay'd  to 
ting ;  stayed  her  song  when  Imperial  tyranny  was 
established  at  Rome.  St.  7  refers  to  the  Italian 
amourist  pcetry  of  the  Renaissance  :  In  Collins' 
day,  Dante  was  almost  unknown  in  England.  St 
8  meeting  soul :  which  moves  sympathetically  to- 
wards simplicity  as  she  comes  to  inspire  the  poet. 
St.  9  Of  these  :  Taste  and  Genius. 
The  Bard.  In  1757,  when  this  splendid  ode  was 
completed,  so  very  little  had  been  printed,  whether 
in  Wales  or  in  England,  in  regard  to  Welsh  poetry, 
that  it  is  hard  to  discover  whence  Gray  drew  his 
Cymric  allusions.  The  fabled  massacre  of  the  Bards 
(shown  to  be  wholly  groundless  in  Stephens'  Litera- 
ture of  the  Kymry}  appears  first  in  the  family  history 
of  Sir  J  ohn  Wynn  of  Gwydir  (cir.  1600),  not  published 
till  1773  ;  but  the  story  seems  to  have  passed  in  MS. 
to  Carte's  History,  whence  it  may  have  been  taken 
by  Gray.  The  references  to  high-born  Hod  and  soft 
Llewellyn  ;  to  Cadicallo  and  Urien  ;  may,  similarly, 
have  been  derived  from  the  '  Specimens '  of  early 
Welsh  poetry,  by  the  Rev.  E.  Evans  :— as,  although 
not  published  till  1764,  the  MS.,  we  learn  from 
a  letter  to  Dr.  Wharton,  was  in  Gray's  hands  by 
July  1760,  and  may  have  reached  him  by  1757.  It 
is,  however,  doubtful  whether  Gray  (of  whose  ac- 
quaintance with  Welsh  we  have  no  evidence)  must 
not  have  been  also  aided  by  some  Welsh  scholar.  He 
is  one  of  the  poets  least  likely  to  scatter  epithets  at 
random  :  '  soft '  or  gentle  is  the  epithet  emphatically 
and  specially  given  to  Llewelyn  in  contemporary 
Welsh  poetry,  and  is  hence  here  used  with  particular 
propriety.  Yet,  without  such  assistance  as  we  have 
suggested,  Gray  could  hardly  have  selected  the 
epithet,  although  applied  to  the  King  (p.  141-3) 
among  a  crowd  of  others,  in  Llygad  Gwr's  Ode, 
printed  by  Evans. — After  lamenting  his  comrades 
(st.  2,  3)  the  Bard  prophesies  the  fate  of  Edward  II, 
ind  the  conquests  of  Edward  III  (4) :  his  death 
and  that  of  the  Black  Prince  (5) :  of  Richard  II,  with 
the  wars  of  York  and  Lancaster,  the  murder  of 
Henry  VI  (the  meek  usurper),  and  of  Edward  V  and 
his  brother  (6).  He  turns  to  the  glory  and  pros- 
perity following  the  accession  of  the  Tudors  (7), 
through  Elizabeth's  reign  (8) :  and  concludes  with  a 
vision  of  the  poetry  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 

140  159    1.  13  Glo'ster :  Gilbert  de  Clare,  son-in-law  to  Edward 
Mortimer,  one  of  the  Lords  Marchers  of  Wales. 


450  NOTES 

PAGE   NO. 

141  159    High-born  Hod,  soft  Llewellyn  (1.  15) ;  the  Dissertatu 

de  Bardis  of  Evans  names  the  first  as  son  to  the  King 
Owain  Gwynedd :  Llewelyn,  last  King  of  North 
Wales,  was  murdered  1282.  L.  1C  Cadtmllo:  Cad- 
wallon  (died  031)  and  Urien  Rheged  (early  kings  of 
Gwynedd  and  Cumbria  respectively)  are  mentioned 
by  Evans  (p.  78)  as  bards  none  of  whose  poetry  is  ex- 
tant. L.  -20  Modred  :  Evans  supplies  no  data  for  this 
name  which  Gray  (it  has  been  supposed)  uses  for 
Merlin  (Myrddin  Wyllt),  held  prophet  as  well  as 
poet.— The  Italicized  lines  mark  where  the  Bard's 
song  is  joined  by  that  of  his  predecessors  departed. 
L  22  Arvon  :  the  shores  of  Carnarvonshire  opposite 
Anglesey.  Whether  intentionally  or  through  ig- 
norance of  the  real  dates,  Gray  here  seems  to 
represent  the  Bard  as  speaking  of  these  poets, 
all  of  earlier  days,  Llewelyn  excepted,  as  his  own 
contemporaries  at  the  close  of  the  thirteenth  cen- 
tury. 

Gray,  whose  penetrating  and  powerful  genius  ren- 
dered him  in  many  ways  an  initiator  in  advance  of 
his  age,  is  probably  the  first  of  our  poets  who  made 
some  acquaintance  with  the  rich  and  admirable 
poetry  in  which  Wales  from  the  Sixth  Century  has 
been  fertile, — before  and  since  his  time  so  barbar- 
ously neglected,  not  in  England  only.  Hence  it  has 
been  thought  worth  while  here  to  enter  into  a  little 
detail  upon  his  Cymric  allusions. 

142  —    1.  5  She-wolf:  Isabel  of  France,  adulterous  Queen  of 

Edward  II.— L.  35  Towers  of  Julius :  the  Tower  of 
London,  built  in  part,  according  to  tradition,  by 
Julius  Csesar. 

143  —    1.  2  bristled  boar :  the  badge  of  Richard  III.     L.  7 

Half  of.  thy  heart :  Queen  Eleanor  died  soon  after  the 
conquest  of  Wales.  L.  18  Arthur :  Henry  VII  named 
his  eldest  son  thus,  in  deference  to  native  feeling  and 
story. 

144  161    The  Highlanders  called   the    battle    of    Culloden, 

Drumossie. 

145  162    lilting,  singing  blithely :  loaning,  broad  lane  :  bughts, 

pens  :  scorning,  rallying :  dowie,  dreary  :  daffin '  and 
gabbin',  joking  and  chatting  :  leglin,  milkpail :  shear- 
ing, reaping  :  bandsters,  sheaf-binders  :  lyart,  grizzled: 
rankled,  wrinkled :  Jleeching,  coaxing :  gloaming, 
twilight:  bogle,  ghost:  dool,  sorrow. 

147  164  The  Editor  has  found  no  authoritative  text  of  this 
poem,  to  his  mind  superior  to  any  other  of  its  claso 
in  melody  and  pathos.  Part  is  probably  not  later 
than  the  seventeenth  century :  in  other  stanzas  a 
more  modern  hand,  much  resembling  Scott's,  is 
traceable.  Logan's  poem  (163)  exhibits  a  knowledge 
rather  of  the  old  legend  than  of  the  old  verses.— 
Htcht,  promised ;  the  obsolete  hight :  mavis,  thrush : 


NOTES  451 

PAGE  NO. 

ilka,  every  :  tav'rock,  lark  :  haughs,  valley-meadows ; 
twined,  parted  from  :  marrow,  mate  :  syne,  then. 

148  165  The  Royal  George,  of  108  guns,  whilst  undergoing  a 
partial  careening  at  Spithead,  was  overset  about  10 
A.M.  Aug.  29, 1782.  The  total  loss  was  believed  to  be 
nearly  1000  souls. — This  little  poem  might  be  called 
one  of  our  trial-pieces,  in  regard  to  taste.  The  reader 
who  feels  the  vigour  of  description  and  the  force  of 
pathos  underlying  Cowper's  bare  and  truly  Greek 
simplicity  of  phrase,  may  assure  himself  se  valde 
profecisse  in  poetry. 

151  167  A  little  masterpiece  in  a very  difficult  style  :  Catullus 
himself  could  hardly  have  bettered  it.  In  grace, 
tenderness,  simplicity,  and  humour,  it  is  worthy  of 
the  Ancients  :  and  even  more  so,  from  the  complete- 
ness and  unity  of  the  picture  presented. 

155  172    Perhaps  no  writer  who  has  given  such  strong  proofs 

of  the  poetic  nature  has  left  less  satisfactory 
poetry  than  Thomson.  Yet  this  song,  with  '  Rule 
Britannia '  and  a  few  others,  must  make  us  regret 
that  he  did  not  more  seriously  apply  himself  to 
lyrical  writing. 

156  174    With  what  insight  and  tenderness,  yet  in  how  few 

words,  has  this  painter-poet  here  himself  told  Love's 
Secret  ! 

157  177    1.  1  Aeolian  lyre:  the  Greeks  ascribed  the  origin  of 

their  Lyrical  Poetry  to  the  Colonies  of  Aeolis  in  Asia 
Minor. 

158  —    Thracia's  hills  (1.  9)  supposed  a  favourite  resort  of 

Mars.  Feather' d  king  (1.  13)  the  Eagle  of  Jupiter, 
admirably  described  by  Pindar  in  a  passage  here 
imitated  by  Gray.  Idalia  (1.  19)  in  Cyprus,  where 
Cyiherea  (Venus)  was  especially  worshipped. 

159  —    1.  6  Hyperion :  the  Sun.     St.  6—8  allude  to  the  Poets 

of  the  Islands  and  Mainland  of  Greece,  to  those  of 
Rome  and  of  England. 

160  —    1.  27  Theban  Eagle .-  Pindar. 

163  178    1.  5  chaste-eyed  Queen  :  Diana. 

164  179    From  that  wild  rhapsody  of  mingled  grandeur,  ten- 

derness, and  obscurity,  that  'medley  between  in- 
spiration and  possession,'  which  poor  Smart  is 
believed  to  have  written  whilst  in  confinement  for 
madness. 

165  181     the  dreadful  light :  of  life  and  experience. 

166  182     Attic  warbler:  the  nightingale. 

168  184  sleekit,  sleek  :  bickering  brattle,  flittering  flight :  laith, 
loth  :  pattle,  ploughstaff  :.whyles,  at  times  :  adaimen- 
icker,  a  corn -ear  now  and  then  :  thra-ce,  shuck  :  lave, 
rest :  foggage,  after-grass :  snell,  biting :  but  hold, 
without  dwelling-place  :  thole,  bear  :  cranreuch,  hoar- 
frost :  thy  lane,  alone  :  a-gley,  off  the  right  line, 
awry. 

17o  188    stowe,  dust-storm ;  braw,  smart. 

176  189    scaith,  hurt :  tent,  guard  :  st ur,  molest. 


452  NOTES  . 

PAGE   NO. 

177  191    drumlie,  muddy :  birk,  birch. 

178  192    greet,  cry :   daurna,    dare  not. — There  can    hardlj 

exist  a  poem  more  truly  tragic  in  the  highest  sense 
than  this  :  nor,  perhaps,  Sappho  excepted,  has  anj 
Poetess  equalled  it. 

180  193    fou,  merry  with  drink :  coost,  carried :  unco  skeigh, 

very  proud  :  gart,  forced  :  abeigh,  aside  :  Ailsa  craig, 
a  rock  in  the  Firth  of  Clyde  :  grat  his  een  bleert, 
cried  till  his  eyes  were  bleared  :  lowpin,  leaping : 
linn,  waterfall :  sair,  sore  :  smoor'd,  smothered : 
crouse  and  canty,  blithe  and  gay. 

181  194    Burns  justly  named  this  '  one  of  the  most  beautiful 

songs  in  the  Scots  or  any  other  language. ''  One  stanza, 
interpolated  by  Beattie,  is  here  omitted  :— it  contains 
two  good  lines,  but  is  out  of  harmony  with  the 
original  poem.  JBigonet,  little  cap  :  probably  altered 
from  beguinette :  thraw,  twist:  caller,  fresh. 

182  195    Burns  himself,  despite  two  'attempts,  failed  to  im- 

prove this  little  absolute  masterpiece  of  music,  ten- 
derness, and  simplicity  :  this  '  Romance  of  a  life '  in 
eight  lines. — Eerie:  strictly,  scared:  uneasy. 

183  196    airts,   quarters  :  row,  roll :   shaiv,  small  wood  in  a 

hollow,  spinney :  knowes,  knolls.  The  last  two 
stanzas  are  not  by  Burns. 

184  107    jo,  sweetheart :  brent,  smooth  :  pow,  head. 
—  198    leal,  faithful.     St.  3  fain,  happy. 

185  199    Henry  VI  founded  Eton. 

188  200  Written  in  1773,  towards  the  beginning  of  Cowper's 
second  attack  of  melancholy  madness — a  time  when 
he  altogether  gave  up  prayer,  saying,  '  For  him  to 
implore  mercy  would  only  anger  God  the  more.' 
Yet  had  he  given  it  up  when  sane,  it  would  have 
been  '  maior  insania.' 

191  203  The  Editor  would  venture  to  class  in  the  very  first 
rank  this  Sonnet,  which,  with  204,  records  Cowper's 
gratitude  to  the  Lady  whose  affectionate  care  for 
many  years  gave  what  sweetness  he  could  enjoy  to  a 
life  radically  wretched.  Petrarch's  sonnets  have  a 
more  ethereal  grace  and  a  more  perfect  finish  ;  Shake- 
speare's more  passion  ;  Milton's  stand  supreme  in 
stateliness ;  Wordsworth's  in  depth  and  delicacy. 
But  Cowper's  unites  with  an  exquisiteness  in  the 
turn  of  thought  which  the  ancients  would  have 
called  Irony,  an  intensity  of  pathetic  tenderness 
peculiar  to  his  loving  and  ingenuous  nature. — There 
is  much  mannerism,  much  that  is  unimportant  or 
of  now  exhausted  interest  in  his  poems  :  but  where 
he  is  great,  it  is  with  that  elementary  greatness 
which  rests  on  the  most  universal  human  feelings. 
Cowper  is  our  highest  master  in  simple  pathos. 

193  205  Cowper's  last  original  poem,  founded  upon  a  story 
told  in  Anson's  'Voyages.'  It  was  written  March 
1799  ;  he  died  in  next  year's  April. 

195  206    Very  little  except  his  name  appears  recoverable  with 


NOTES  453 

PAGE  NO. 

regard  to  the  author  of  this  truly  noble  poem,  which 
appeared  in  the  '  Scripscrapologia,  or  Collins' 
Doggerel  Dish  of  All  Sorts,'  with  three  or  four 
other  pieces  of  merit,  Birmingham,  1804. — Ever- 
lasting :  used  with  side-allusion  to  a  cloth  so  named, 
at  the  time  when  Collins  wrote. 

Summary  of  Book  Fourth 

It  proves  sufficiently  the  lavish  wealth  of  our  own  age  in 
Poetry,  that  the  pieces  which,  without  conscious  departure 
from  the  Standard  of  Excellence,  render  this  Book  by  far  the 
longest,  were  with  very  few  exceptions  composed  during  the 
first  thirty  years  of  the  Nineteenth  century.  Exhaustive 
reasons  can  hardly  be  given  for  the  strangely  sudden  appear- 
ance of  individual  genius  :  that,  however,  which  assigns  the 
splendid  national  achievements  of  our  recent  poetry  to  an  im- 
pulse from  the  France  of  the  first  Republic  and  Empire  is  in- 
adequate. The  first  French  Revolution  was  rather  one  result, — 
the  most  conspicuous,  indeed,  yet  itself  in  great  measure 
essentially  retrogressive,— of  that  wider  and  more  potent 
spirit  which  through  enquiry  and  attempt,  through  strength 
and  weakness,  sweeps  mankind  round  the  circles  (not,  as 
some  too  confidently  argue,  of  Advance,  but)  of  gradual 
Transformation :  and  it  is  to  this  that  we  must  trace  the 
literature  of  Modern  Europe.  But,  without  attempting  dis- 
cussion on  the  motive  causes  of  Scott,  Wordsworth,  Shelley, 
and  others,  we  may  observe  that  these  Poets  carried  to  further 
perfection  the  later  tendencies  of  the  Century  preceding,  in 
simplicity  of  narrative,  reverence  for  human  Passion  and 
Character  in  every  sphere,  and  love  of  Nature  for  herself : — 
that,  whilst  maintaining  on  the  whole  the  advances  in  art  made 
since  the  Restoration,  they  renewed  the  half -forgotten  melody 
and  depth  of  tone  which  marked  the  best  Elizabethan  writers  : 
— that,  lastly,  to  what  was  thus  inherited  they  added  a  rich- 
ness in  language  and  a  variety  in  metre,  a  force  and  fire  in 
narrative,  a  tenderness  and  bloom  in  feeling,  an  insight  into 
the  finer  passages  of  the  Soul  and  the  inner  meanings  of  the 
landscape,  a  larger  sense  of  Humanity, — hitherto  scarcely  at- 
tained, and  perhaps  unattainable  even  by  predecessors  of  not 
inferior  individual  genius.  In  a  word,  the  Nation  which, 
after  the  Greeks  in  their  glory,  may  fairly  claim  that  during 
six  centuries  it  has  proved  itself  the  most  richly  gifted  of 
all  nations  for  Poetry,  expressed  in  these  men  the  highest 
strength  and  prodigality  of  its  nature.  They  interpreted  the 
age  to  itself — hence  the  many  phases  of  thought  and  style 
they  present :— to  sympathise  with  each,  fervently  and  im- 
partially, without  fear  and  without  fancif  ulness,  is  no  doubt- 
ful step  in  the  higher  education  of  the  soul.  For  purity  in 
taste  is  absolutely  proportionate  to  strength — and  when  once 
the  mind  has  raised  itself  to  grasp  and  to  delight  in  excellence, 
those  who  love  most  will  be  found  to  love  most  wisely. 


454  NOTES 

But  the  gallery  which  this  Book  offers  to  the  reader  wifc 
aid  him  more  than  any  preface.  It  is  a  royal  Palace  of  Poetry 
which  he  is  invited  to  enter : 

Adparet  domus  intus,  et  atria  longa  patescimt — 

though  it  is,  indeed,  to  the  sympathetic  eye  only  that  its 
treasures  will  be  visible. 


PAGE  NO. 

197  208  This  beautiful  lyric,  printed  in  1783,  seems  to  antici 
pate  in  its  imaginative  music  that  return  to  our  great 
early  age  of  song,  which  in  Blake's  own  lifetime  was 
to  prove, — how  gloriously  !  that  the  English  Muses 
had  resumed  their  '  ancient  melody ' : — Keats, 
Shelley,  Byron,—  he  overlived  them  all. 

199  210  stout  Cortez :  History  would  here  suggest  Balboa : 
(A.T.)  It  may  be  noticed,  that  to  find  in  Chapman's 
Homer  the  '  pure  serene '  of  the  original,  the  reader 
must  bring  with  him  the  imagination  of  the  youth- 
ful poet ;— he  must  be  'a  Greek  himself,'  as  Shelley 
finely  said  of  Keats. 

202  212    The  most  tender  and  true  of  Byron's  smaller  poems. 

203  213    This  poem  exemplifies  the  peculiar  skill  with  which 

Scott  employs  proper  names  : — a  rarely  misleading 
sign  of  true  poetical  genius. 

213  226  Simple  as  Lucy  Gray  seems,  a  mere  narrative  of 
what  'has  been,  and  may  be  again,'  yet  every  touch 
in  the  child's  picture  is  marked  by  the  deepest  and 
purest  ideal  character.  Hence,  pathetic  as  the 
situation  is,  this  is  not  strictly  a  pathetic  poem,  such 
as  Wordsworth  gives  us  in  221,  Lamb  in  264,  and 
Scott  in  his  Maid  of  Neidpath, — 'almost  more 
pathetic,'  as  Tennyson  once  remarked,  'than  a  man 
has  the  right  to  be.'  And  Lyte's  lovely  stanzas 
(224)  suggest,  perhaps,  the  same  remark. 

222  235  In  this  and  in  other  instances  the  addition  (or  the 
change)  of  a  Title  has  been  risked,  in  hope  that  the 
aim  of  the  piece  following  may  be  grasped  more 
clearly  and  immediately. 

228  242  This  beautiful  Sonnet  was  the  last  word  of  a  youth, 
in  whom,  if  the  fulfilment  may  ever  safely  be  pro- 
phesied from  the  promise,  England  lost  one  of  the 
most  rarely  gifted  in  the  long  roll  of  her  poets. 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  had  their  lives  been  closed 
at  twenty-five,  would  (so  far  as  we  know)  have  left 
poems  of  less  excellence  and  hope  than  the  youth 
who,  from  the  petty  school  and  the  London  surgery, 
passed  at  once  to  a  place  with  them  of  'high 
collateral  glory.' 

230  245     It  is  impossible  not  to  regret  that  Moore  has  written 

so  little  in  this  sweet  and  genuinely  national  style. 

231  246    A  masterly  example  of  Byron's  command  of  strong 


NOTES  455 

PAGE  NO. 

thought  and  close  reasoning  in  verse  :— as  the  next  is 
equally  characteristic  of  Shelley's  wayward  intensity. 

240  253    Bonnivard,  a  Genevese  was  imprisoned  by  the  Duke 

of  Savoy  in  Chilloii  on  the  lake  of  Geneva  for  his 
courageous  defence  of  his  country  against  the 
tyranny  with  which  Piedmont  threatened  it  during 
the  first  half  of  the  Seventeenth  century.— This  noble 
Sonnet  is  worthy  to  stand  near  Milton's  on  the 
Vaudois  massacre. 

241  254    Switzerland  was  usurped  by  the  French  under  Napo- 

leon in  1800  :  Venice  in  1797  (255). 
243  259    This  battle  was  fought  Dec.  2,  1800,  between  the 

Austrians  under  Archduke  John  and   the   French 

under  Moreau,  in  a  forest  near  Munich.      Hoher 

Linden  means  High  Limetrees. 
247  262    After  the  capture  of  Madrid  by  Napoleon,  Sir  J. 

Moore  retreated  before  Soult  and  Ney  to  Corunna, 

and  was  killed  whilst  covering  the  embarkation  of 

his  troops. 

257  272    The  Mermaid  was  the  club-house  of  Shakespeare, 

Ben  Jonson,  and  other  choice  spirits  of  that  age. 

258  273     Maisie :  Mary. — Scott  has   given   us  nothing  more 

complete  and  lovely  than  this  little  song,  which 
unites  simplicity  and  dramatic  power  to  a  wild-wood 
music  of  the  rarest  quality.  No  moral  is  drawn,  far 
less  any  conscious  analysis  of  feeling  attempted : — 
the  pathetic  meaning  is  left  to  be  suggested  by  the 
mere  presentment  of  the  situation.  A  narrow  criti- 
cism has  often  named  this,  which  may  be  called  the 
Homeric  manner,  superficial,  from  its  apparent 
simple  facility ;  but  first-rate  excellence  in  it  is  in 
truth  one  of  the  least  common  triumphs  of  Poetry. — 
This  style  should  be  compared  with  what  is  not  less 
perfect  in  its  way,  the  searching  out  of  inner  feeling, 
the  expression  of  hidden  meanings,  the  revelation  of 
the  heart  of  Nature  and  of  the  Soul  within  the  Soul, 
— the  analytical  method,  in  short, — most  completely 
represented  by  Wordsworth  and  by  Shelley. 
2G3  277  Wolfe  resembled  Keats,  not  only  in  his  early  death 
by  consumption  and  the  fluent  freshness  of  his 
poetical  style,  but  in  beauty  of  character : — brave, 
tender,  energetic,  unselfish,  modest.  Is  it  fanciful 
to  find  some  reflex  of  these  qualities  in  the  Burial 
and  Mary  ?  Out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart .  . . 

264  278    correi :  covert  on  a  hillside.     Camber :  trouble. 

265  280    This  book  has  not  a  few  poems  of  greater  power  and 

more  perfect  execution  than  Amies  and  the  extract 
which  we  have  ventured  to  make  from  the  deep- 
hearted  author's  Sad  Thoughts  (No  224).  But  none 
are  more  emphatically  marked  by  the  note  of  ex- 
quisiteness. 

2«U>  281     st.  3  inch :  island. 

•'-70  283     From  Poetry  for  Children  (1809),  by  Charles  and  Mary 


456  NOTES 

PAGE  NO. 

Lamb.  This  tender  and  original  little  piece  seems 
clearly  to  reveal  the  work  of  that  noble-minded  and 
afflicted  sister,  who  was  at  once  the  happiness,  the 
misery,  and  the  life-long  blessing  of  her  equally 
noble-minded  brother. 

278  289  This  poem  has  an  exultation  and  a  glory,  joined  with 
an  exquisiteness  of  expression,  which  place  it  in  the 
highest  rank  among  the  many  masterpieces  of  its 
illustrious  Author. 

289  300  interlunar  swoon :  interval  of  the  moon's  invisi- 
bility. 

294  304    Calpe:  Gilbraltar.     Lofoden:  the  Maelstrom  whirl- 

pool off  the  N.  W.  coast  of  Norway. 

295  305     This  lovely  poem  refers  here  and  there  to  a  ballad  by 

Hamilton  on  the  subject  better  treated  in  103  arid 
164. 

307  315    Arcturi:  seemingly  used  for  northern  stars.      An  I 

wild  roses,  &c.     Our  language  has  perhaps  no  line  . 
modulated  with  more  subtle  sweetness. 

308  316    Coleridge  describes  this  poem  as  the  fragment  of  a 

dream-vision, — perhaps,  an  opium-dream  ? — which 
composed  itself  in  his  mind  when  fallen  asleep  after 
reading  a  few  lines  about  'the  Khan  Kubla'  in 
Purchas'  Pilgrimage. 

312  318  Ceres'  daughter:  Proserpine.  God  of  Torment: 
Pluto. 

320  321    The  leading  idea  of  this  beautiful  description  of  a 

day's  landscape  in  Italy  appears  to  be — On  the  voyage 
of  life  are  many  moments  of  pleasure,  given  by  the 
sight  of  Nature,  who  has  power  to  heal  even  the 
worldliness  and  the  uiicharity  of  man. 

321  —    1.  23  Amphitrite  was  daughter  to  Ocean. 

825  322  1.  21  Maenad:  a  frenzied  Nymph,  attendant  on 
Dionysos  in  the  Greek  mythology.  May  we  not  call 
this  the  most  vivid,  sustained,  and  impassioned 
amongst  all  Shelley's  magical  personifications  of 
Nature  ? 

326  —    1.  5  Plants  under  water  sympathize  with  the  seasons 

of  the  land,  and  hence  with  the  winds  which  affect 
them. 

327  323    Written  soon    after  the  death,  by  shipwreck,    of 

Wordsworth's  brother  John.  This  poem  may  be  pro- 
fitably compared  with  Shelley's  following  it.  Each 
is  the  most  complete  expression  of  the  innermost 
spirit  of  his  art  given  by  these  great  Poets  : — of  that 
Idea  which,  as  in  the  case  of  the  true  Painter,  (to 
quote  the  words  of  Reynolds,)  'subsists  only  in  the 
mind  :  The  sight  never  beheld  it,  nor  has  the  hand 
expressed  it :  it  is  an  idea  residing  in  the  breast  of 
the  artist,  which  he  is  always  labouring  to  impart, 
and  vhich  he  dies  at  last  without  imparting. ' 

328  —    the  Kind :  the  human  race. 
331  827    the  Royal  Saint :  Henry  VI, 


NOTES  457 

PAGE   NO. 

331  328  at.  4  this  folk :  its  has  been  here  plausibly  but,  per- 
haps, unnecessarily,  conjectured.  —  Every  one 
knows  the  general  story  of  the  Italian  Renais- 
sance, of  the  Revival  of  Letters  —  From  Pe- 
trarch's day  to  our  own,  that  ancient  world  has 
renewed  its  youth :  Poets  and  artists,  students 
and  thinkers,  have  yielded  themselves  wholly  to 
its  fascination,  and  deeply  penetrated  its  spirit. 
Yet  perhaps  no  one  more  truly  has  vivified,  whilst 
idealising,  the  picture  of  Greek  country  life  in 
the  fancied  Golden  Age,  than  Keats  in  these 
lovely  (if  somewhat  unequally  executed)  stanzas : 
- — his  quick  imagination,  by  a  kind  of  'natural 
magic,'  more  than  supplying  the  scholarship 
which  his  youth  had  no  opportunity  of  gaining. 

105  134  These  stanzas  are  by  Richard  Verstegan  ( —  c. 
1635)  a  poet  and  antiquarian,  published  in  his 
rare  Odes  (1601),  under  the  title  Our  Blessed 
Ladies  Lullaby,  and  reprinted  by  Mr.  Orby 
Shipley  in  his  beautiful  Carmina  Mariana  (1893). 
The  four  stanzas  here  given  form  the  opening 
of  a  hymn  of  twenty-four. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

Second  Half  of  the  Nineteenth  Century. 

PAGE    NO. 

349  340  Walter  Savage  Landor  (1775-1864)  is  better 
known  as  a  prose  writer  of  classical  taste  and 
graceful  style,  than  as  a  poet,  though  many 
critics  consider  him  a  master  of  the  lighter 
forms  of  English  verse.  His  most  famous  work 
is  "Imaginary  Conversations,"  written  between 
1824  and  1829.  The  lines  here  given  are  from 
his  latest  work  "The  last  Fruit  of  an  old  Tree," 
written  when  Landor  was  nearly  four-score,  and 
the  strife  of  his  youth  had  become  a  memory. 

349  341  Rose  Aylmer.  This  poem  was  first  published 
in  1806.  Rose  Aylmer  was  of  the  family  of  Lord 
Aylmer  in  Wales.  The  lines  may  fitly  rank  with 
Wordsworth's  She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 
and  Browning's  Evelyn  Hope. 

349  342     To  Robert  Browning.     This  graceful  tribute  was 

published  in  1846,  when  Browning  was  fifty- 
seven  and  Landor  seventy-one.  The  allusion 
to  warmer  climes  in  line  ten  refers  to  Browning's 
removal  to  Italy,  where  he  resided  until  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Browning  in  1861. 

350  344     Rondeau.     Henry    James     Leigh    Hunt    (1784- 

1859)  is,  like  Landor,  more  renowned  as  a  prose 
writer,  especially  as  an  essayist,  than  as  a  poet, 
though  he  is  the  author  of  many  poems  of  high 
merit.  This  poem  is  not  strictly  a  rondeau,  which 
should  have  ten,  or  sometimes  thirteen,  lines,  with 
but  two  rhymes,  and  with  the  opening  words 
twice  repeated. 

350  345     Three  Men  of  Gotham.     Thomas  Love  Peacock, 

who,  like  Lamb,  was  a  clerk,  afterwards  an 
official,  in  the  East  India  Company,  was  the 
author  of  several  novels,  from  one  of  which, 
"  Nightmare  Abbey,"  this  song  is  taken.  Gotham 
is  a  village  on  the  Trent,  in  Nottinghamshire, 
from  which,  tradition  says :  — 
"Three  Wise  Men  of  Gotham 

Went  to  sea  in  a  bowl ; 

If  the  bowl  had  been  stronger 

My  song  had  been  longer." 

351  346     Robert  Stephen  Hawker  (1803-1875)  was  Vicar 

of  Morwinstow  in  Cornwall.  Sir  Jonathan 
Trelawny,  who  was  of  an  ancient  family  and 
much  loved  by  the  Cornish  men,  was  one  of 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  459 

PAGE   NO. 

seven  bishops  who  refused,  in  1688,  to  read  the 
King's  Declaration  of  Indulgence.  He  was  com- 
mitted to  the  Tower  by  James  II.  The  song 
voices  the  indignation  of  the  people  at  his  arrest. 
He  was  afterwards  tried  and  acquitted. 

352  347  The  Shandon  Bells  are  the  chimes  of  St.  Anne 
Shandon's  Church  in  Cork. 

354  348  The  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese  were  written 
by  Elizabeth  Barrett,  in  1849,  the  year  before 
her  marriage  to  Robert  Browning.  Despite  the 
title,  they  are  not  translations,  but  original  poems. 
The  entire  series  comprises  forty-four  sonnets : 
the  ones  here  given  are  numbers  one,  eight,  ten, 
fourteen,  and  forty-three  of  the  series.  • 

The  reference  to  Theocritus  is  to  the  Fifteenth 
Idyll,  lines  103-4 :  — 

"Still,  though  they  move  on  lagging  wing, 
The  Hours  some  balmy  blessing  bring." 
In    Greek    Mythology    the    Hours    were    the 
goddesses  of  the  Seasons. 

356  353  A  Musical  Instrument  is  from  the  volume  of 
"Last  Poems,"  published  in  1862,  the  year  after 
Mrs.  Browning's  death.  The  god  Pan,  in  Greek 
Mythology,  was  the  god  of  woods  and  fields,  of 
flocks  and  shepherds.  He  was  fond  of  music 
and  was  the  inventor  of  the  Syrinx,  or  Shepherd's 
pipe,  formed  of  reeds  of  different  lengths  so 
set  as  to  complete  the  musical  scale.  To  this 
invention  the  poem  has  reference. 

358  355  The  Rubdiydt  are  translated  by  Edward  Fitz- 
Gerald  (1809-1883)  from  the  Persian  of  Omar 
Khayyam,  the  Persian  poet  of  the  llth  century. 
A  rubai  is  a  stanza  of  four  lines  of  equal  length, 
the  first,  second  and  fourth  riming,  the  third 
left  blank. 

The  translations  of  FitzGerald  are  exceedingly 
fine,  many  of  the  rubdiydt  being  really  original 
stanzas  on  a  Persian  theme.  The  rubaiydt  here 
given  are  from  the  original  edition  of  Fitz- 
Gerald's  translations,  published  in  1859. 

364  356  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  who  was  elevated 
to  the  peerage  as  Baron  Houghton,  by  Lord 
Palmerston,  in  1863,  was  a  notable  English 
parliamentarian  who  during  his  Parliamentary 
career  took  an  active  part  in  the  movements 
of  -the  day.  He  travelled  extensively  and 
befriended  many  young  writers  and  artists.  He 
published  several  volumes  of  travels  and  poems 
and  was  the  editor,  in  1848,  of  "The  Life  and 
Letters  of  Keats." 

The  poem  here  given  is  from  riis  volume 
"Poems  of  Many  Years,"  published  in  1838. 


46o  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

PAGE    NO. 

366  357  The  lyrics  here  given  from  Tennyson  represent 
different  periods  of  his  poetic  life. 

The  Miller's  Daughter  is  from  the  "Poems" 
of  1833 ;  Break,  break,  break,  from  the  second 
volume  of  "Poems"  of  1842;  The  Brook,  from 
"Maud  and  other  poems,"  1855;  As  thro'  the 
land,  The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls,  Tears, 
idle  tears  and  0  Swallow,  Swallow,  from  "  The 
Princess,"  1850;  Ring  out,  wild  bells,  from 
section  cvi,  "In  Memoriam,"  1850;  Come  into 
the  garden,  Maud,  from  "Maud,"  1885;  In 
Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  from  Merlin  and  Vivien,  in 
"Idylls  of  the  King,"  1859. 

375  367     The  three  lyrics  here  given  are  from  the  dramatic 

rm  "Pippa  Passes,"  first  published  in  1841. 
The  Lost  Leader,  Browning  had  Wordsworth 
in  mind,  having  the  feeling  that  Wordsworth 
had  grown  conservative  as  he  advanced  in  years. 
The  poem  is  taken  from  "Bells  and  Pome- 
granates," 1845.  Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad 
and  Home  Thoughts,  from  the  Sea  are  from  the 
same  edition. 

379  373  Misconceptions :  from  "  Men  and  Women, "  1855. 
A  Woman's  Last  Word  is  from  the  second  volume 
of  the  same  edition. 

381  375  Rabbi  Ben  Ezra.  This  poem  is  from  "  Dramatis 
Personae,"  1864.  Ibn  Ezra,  or  Ben  Ezra,  into 
whose  mouth  Browning  puts  the  reflections  in 
this  poem,  was  born  in  Toledo,  Spain,  about 
.1090,  and  died  about  1167.  He  was  distin- 
guished as  philosopher,  astronomer,  physician, 
and  poet,  but  especially  as  a  grammarian  and 
commentator.  The  ideas  of  the  poem  are 
drawn  largely  from  the  writings  of  Rabbi  Ben 
Ezra.  The  opening  line,  "Grow  old  along  with 
me,"  may  be  taken  as  an  introduction  to  the 
thought  of  the  poem,  as  if  he  had  said,  "Come, 
let  us  talk  of  old  age." 

387  376  Charles  Mackay  (1814-1889)  was  an  editor  of 
English  and  Scottish  newspapers  and  a  writer 
of  songs.  This  poem  is  taken  from  his  "Ballads 
and  Lyrical  Poems,"  published  in  1856.  The 
Biblical  reference  for  Tubal  Cain  will  be  found  in 
Genesis,  iv.  22. 

389  377  Arthur  Hugh  Clough  (1819-1861)  was  educated 
at  Balliol  College  at  Oxford,  was  some  time 
fellow  at  Oriel  and  afterwards  in  Government 
work  in  the  Education  Office.  He  was  an  in- 
timate friend  of  Matthew  Arnold,  who  com- 
memorated him  in  his  elegiac  poem,  Thyrsis. 

Qua  cursum  ventus :  wherever  the  wind 
directs  the  course. 


ADDITIONAL  POEMS  461 

PAGE    NO. 

391  379     The  Choir  Invisible  was  first  published  in  1874, 

in  "The  Legend  of  Jubal  and  other  Poems." 
Mary  Ann  Evans,  afterwards  Mrs.  Cross, 
known  in  literature  as  George  Eliot  (1819- 
1880),  was.  noted  rather  as  a  writer  of  fiction  than 
as  a  poet,  and  undoubtedly  ranks  as  one  of  the 
greatest  of  English  novelists,  though  her  repu- 
tation is  better  sustained  by  her  earlier  books, 
"Adam  Bede,"  "Mill  on  the  Floss,"  and  "Silas 
Marner,  "  than  by  her  later  and  more  philo- 
sophical novels. 

392  380     Charles  Kingsley  (1819-1875),  Clergyman,  Pro- 

fessor of  Modern  History,  Novelist,  and  Poet, 
lived  and  worked  for  the  betterment  of  the 
condition  of  the  poor  and  the  oppressed. 

Airly  Beacon  was  published  in  1858  in  "An- 
dromeda and  other  Poems  '  '  ;  The  Sands  of  Dee 
is  from  the  twenty-sixth  chapter  of  the  novel 
"Alton  Locke,"  1849;  Young  and  Old  is  from 
the  second  chapter  of  Kingsley's  delightful 
fantasy  of  "The  Water  Babies,"  1863. 

394  383.  Jean  Ingelow  (1820-1897)  was  born  in  Boston, 
in  Lincolnshire,  and  was  the  author  of  several 
popular  novels  and  stories  for  children.  The 
High  Tide  is  taken  from  her  "Poems,"  published 
in  1863. 

399  384  Of  the  poems  here  given,  A  Summer  Night  is 
from  "Empedocles  on  Etna  and  other  Poems," 
1852  ;  Philomela  and  Requiescat  are  from  the 
"Poems"  of  1853:  Rugby  Chapel  is  from  "New 
Poems,"  1867. 

409  388  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  (1828-1882)  was  equally 
noted  as  poet  and  painter  and  was  the  leader 
and  exemplar  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  School, 
both  in  Painting  and  in  Poetry.  In  1850,  with 
the  assistance  of  a  few  associates  of  the  Pre- 
Raphaelite  Brotherhood,  he  founded  "The 
Germ,"  a  small  monthly  periodical  of  only 
four  numbers,  the  last  two  of  which  were  called 
"Art  and  Poetry,"  but  which  gained  distinction 
as  the  organ  of  the  order  and  in  which  The 
Blessed  Damozel  appeared  in  1850. 

413  389  Christina  Georgina  Rossetti  (1830-1894)  was 
the  sister  of  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti  and  a  poet 
of  much  distinction.  The  two  poems  here 
given  are  from  her  first  book,  "Goblin  Market 


and  other  Poems,"  1862. 
414  391  While  Alexander  Smith  (1820-1867)  was  a 
pattern  designer  at  Glasgow,  he  published  poems 
in  the  "Glasgow  Citizen"  which  won  favor. 
In  1851,  his  first  long  poem,  A  Life  Drama, 
appeared  and  made  a  sensation.  He  became 


462  ADDITIONAL  POEMS 

PAGE    NO. 

Secretary  of  the  University  of  Edinburgh  in 
1854.  Afterwards  he  edited  an  edition  of 
Burns  and  published  "Sonnets  on  the  War," 
"City  Poems,"  and  "Edwin  of  Deira. "  The 
Song  here  given  is  from  "City  Poems,"  1857. 
417  392  William  Morris  (1834-1896)  gained  distinction 
as  decorative  artist,  as  artistic  painter,  as  poet, 
and  as  socialist  and  reformer.  In  connection 
with  Rossetti  he  was  one  of  the  founders  of 
"The  Germ"  and  of  the  "Oxford  and  Cam- 
bridge Magazine,"  from  which  the  poem  here 
given  is  taken.  He  is  especially  noted  as  having 
applied  the  secret  of  beauty  to  decorative  con- 
struction, and  for  the  grace  with  which  in  his 
poetry  he  has  reproduced  the  Germanic  and 
Norse  legendaries  in  fluent  English  Verse. 

417  394     James  Thomson  (1834-1882)   is  best  known  as 

the  author  of  "The  City  of  Dreadful  Night," 
1880,  a  poem  somewhat  less  considered  now  than 
when  first  published. 

The  lines,  As  we  rush,  are  from  a  poem  en- 
titled Sunday  at  Hampstead,  published  in  1880. 

418  394     Algernon    Charles    Swinburne     (1837-1909)     is 

best  known  for  the  perfection  of  his  rhythms 
and  for  the  beauty  of  his  musical  verse.  Itylus 
is  from  his  first  series  of  "Poems  and  Ballads," 
1866 ;  A  Forsaken  Garden  from  the  second 
series  of  "Poems  and  Ballads,"  1878. 

422-396  William  Ernest  Henley  (1849-1903)  was  editor, 
playwright,  critic,  and  poet.  The  lyric  here 
given,  which  is  an  assertion  of  the  indomitable 
human  will  in  the  presence  of  adverse  destiny, 
was  written  when  Henley  was  himself  stricken 
with  illness. 

425  397     Francis  Thompson  (1859-1907)  was  a  mystical 

poet,  aflame  with  religious  passion.  His  poems, 
which  were  published  in  two  volumes,  though 
appealing  rather  to  the  thoughtful  few  than  to 
the  casual  reader,  have  permanent  value. 

Of  his  longer  poems,  probably  the  most  noted 
is  The  Hound  of  Heaven. 

426  399     Alfred  Noyes  was  born  in  1880 ;  he  has  published 

many  books  of  poetry.  ' '  The  heart  of  the  child  and 
the  mind  of  the  man  are  in  him"  says  one  critic. 

429  402  John  Masefield  was  born  in  Ledbury  in  Western 
England  in  1874. 

He  was  for  many  years  a  sailor,  and  he  tells 
the  secret  of  the  seas  in  many  of  his  first  poems. 

433  406  William  Butler  Yeats  was  born  in  Dublin,  in 
1865.  After  the  Dublin  Schools,  he  studied  art 
in  London  for  three  years,  but  turned  from  art 
to  literature  and  the  drama.  He  has  published 
a  number  of  volumes  of  poetry. 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS 

WITH    DATES    OF    BIRTH   AND    DEATH 

NUMBER 

ALEXANDER,  William  (1580-1640). 

To  Aurora xxix 

ARNOLD,  Matthew  (1822-1888). 

A  Summer  Night ccclxxxiv 

Philomela ccclxxxv 

Requiescat ccclxxxvi 

Rugby  Chapel ccclxxxvii 

BARBAULD,  Anna  Laetitia  (1743-1825). 

To  Life ccvii 

BARNEFIELD,  Richard  (16th  century). 

The  Nightingale xlv 

BEAUMONT,  Francis  (1586-1616). 

On  the  Tombs  in  Westminster  Abbey    .     .  xc 

BLAKE,  William  (1757-1827). 

Love's  Secret clxxiv 

Infant  Joy clxxx 

A  Cradle  Song clxxxi 

To  the  Muses ccviii 

BROWNING,  Elizabeth  Barrett  (1806-1861). 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung    .  cccxlyiii 

What  can  I  give  thee  back cccxlix 

Yet  love,  mere  love cccl 

If  thou  must  love  me cccli 

How  do  I  love  thee ccclii 

A  Musical  Instrument cccliii 

BROWNING,  Robert  (1812-1889). 

The  year's  at  the  spring ccclxvii 

Give  her  but  the  least  excuse ccclxyiii 

Day ccclxix 

The  Lost  Leader ccclxx 

Home  Thoughts,  from  Abroad      ....  ccclxxi 

Home  Thoughts,  from  the  Sea       ....  ccclxxii 

Misconceptions ccclxxiii 

A  Woman's  Last  Word ccclxxiv 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra ccclxxv 


464  INDEX  OF  WRITERS 

NUMBER 

BURNS,  Robert  (1759-1796). 

Lament  for  Culloden clxi 

A  Farewell clxviii 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  doon   .     .     .  clxxvi 

To  a  Mouse clxxxiv 

Mary  Morison clxxxviii 

Bonnie  Lesley clxxxix 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose   ....  cxc 

Highland  Mary cxci 

Duncan  Gray cxciii 

Jean cxcvi 

John  Anderson cxcvii 

BYRON,  George  Gordon  Noel  (1788-1824). 

All  for  Love ccxii 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters     .     .  ccxiv 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night    .     .     .  ccxvi 

When  we  two  parted ccxxxiv 

Elegy  on  Thyrza ccxlvi 

On  the  Castle  of  Chillon ccliii 

Youth  and  Age cclxvi 

Elegy .  cclxxv 

CAMPBELL,  Thomas  (1777-1844). 

Lord  Ullin's  Daughter ccxxv 

To  the  Evening  Star ccxxxi 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child     .     .  ccxli 

Ye  Mariners  of  England ccl 

Battle  9f  the  Baltic ccli 

Hohenlinden cclix 

The  Beech  Tree's  Petition ccxcv 

Ode  to  Winter ccciv 

Song  to  the  Evening  Star cccx 

The  Soldier's  Dream cccxiv 

The  River  of  Life cccxxxii 

CAMPION,  Thomas  (c.  1567-1620). 

Basia xxv 

Advice  to  a  Girl xxvi 

In  Imagine  Pertransit  Homo 1 

Sleep,  angry  beauty,  sleep lii 

A  Renunciation lv 

O  Crudelis  Amor lix 

Sic  Transit Ixxvi 

The  man  of  life  upright Ixxix 

A  Hymn  in  Praise  of  Neptune       .     .     .     .  ci 

Fortunati  Nimium cxliii 

CAREW,  Thomas  (1589-1639). 

The  True  Beauty cxii 

CAREY,  Henry  ( 1743). 

Sally  in  our  Alley clxvii 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS  465 


CIBBER,  Colley  (1671-1757). 

The  Blind  Boy civ 

CLOUGH,  Arthur  Hugh  (1819-1861). 

Qua  cursum  ventus ccclxxvii 

Where  lies  the  land ccclxxviii 

COLERIDGE,  Hartley  (1796-1849). 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view     ....  ccxviii 

COLERIDGE,  Samuel  Taylor  (1772-1834). 

Love  (Genevieve) ccxi 

Kubla  Khan cccxvi 

Youth  and  Age cccxxix 

COLLINS,  John  (18th  century). 

Tomorrow ccvi 

COLLINS,  William  (1720-1756). 

Ode  to  Simplicity cliii 

Ode  written  in  1746 clx 

The  Passions clxxviii 

Ode  to  Evening clxxxvi 

COWLEY,  Abraham  (1618-1667). 

A  Supplication cxxx 

On  the  Death  of  Mr.  William  Hervey    .     .  cxxxvii 

COWPER,  William  (1731-1800). 

Loss  of  the  Royal  George clxv 

To  a  Young  Lady clxx 

The  Poplar  Field clxxxiii 

The  Shrubbery cc 

The  Solitude  of  Alexander  Selkirk      .     .     .  ccii 

To  Mary  Unwin cciii 

To  the  Same cciv 

The  Castaway ccv 

CRASHAW,  Richard  (16157-1652). 

Wishes  for  the  Supposed  Mistress      .     .     .  ciii 

CUNNINGHAM,  Allan  (1784-1842). 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea        ....  ccxlix 

DANIEL,  Samuel  (1562-1619). 

Care-Charmer  Sleep xlvi 

DEKKER,  Thomas  ( 1638?). 

The  Happy  Heart  .........  Ixxv 

DEVEREUX,  Robert  (Earl  of  Essex)  (1567-1601). 

A  Wish Ixxxiii 

DONNE,  John  (1573-1631). 

Present  in  Absence      . xii 

DRAYTON,  Michael  (1563-1631). 

Love's  Farewell xlix 

2H 


466  INDEX   OF  WRITERS 

NUMBER 

DRUMMOND,  William  (1585-1649). 

Summons  to  Love iv 

A  Lament Ixi 

To  his  Lute Ixiii 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair Ixxvii 

The  Lessons  of  Nature Ixxx 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus? Ixxxi 

Saint  John  Baptist Ixxxiv 

DRYDEN,  John  (1631-1700). 

Song  for  St.  Cecilia's  Day,  1687    .     .     .     .  Ixxxvi 
Alexander's  Feast cli 

ELIOT,  George  (Mary  Ann  Cross)  (1819-1880). 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible     ....  ccclxxix 

ELLIOTT,  Jane  (18th  century). 

The  Flowers  of  the  Forest  (Flodden)      .     .  clxii 

FITZGERALD,  Edward  (1809-1883). 

Rubaiyat  of  Omar  Khayyam ccoiv 

TLETCHER,  John  (1576-1625). 

Melancholy cxxxii 

GAY,  John  (1685-1732). 

Black-eyed  Susan clxvi 

GOLDSMITH,  Oliver  (1728-1774). 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly  .     .     .  clxxv 

GRAHAM,  Robert  (1735-1797). 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please  ....  clxix 

GRAY,  Thomas  (1716-1771). 

Ode  on  the  Pleasure  arising  from  Vicissitude  clii 

On  a  Favourite  Cat clvi 

The  Bard clix 

The  Progress  of  Poesy clxxvii 

Ode  on  the  Spring clxxxii 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Churchyard     .  clxxxvii 
Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  of  Eton  College  cxcix 
Hymn  to  Adversity cci 

GREENE,  Robert  (15617-1592). 

Sephestia's  Song  to  her  Child Ix 

HABJNGTON,  William  (1605-1645). 

Nox  Nocti  Indicat  Scientiam ccxlviii 

HAWKER,  Robert  Stephen  (1803-1875). 

And  shall  Trelawny  die cccxlvi 

HENLEY,  William  Ernest  (1849-1903). 

Out  of  the  night cccxcvi 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS  467 

NUMBER 

HERBERT,  George  (1593-1632). 

The  Gifts  of  God xcvii 

HERRICK,  Robert  (1591-1674?). 

Counsel  to  Girls cviii 

To  Dianeme        cxiii 

Corinna's  Maying cxyiii 

The  Poetry  of  Dress,    I cxix 

II cxx 

To  Anthea cxxiv 

To  Blossoms cxxxix 

To  Daffodils        cxl 

HEYWOOD,  Thomas  ( 1649?). 

Give  my  Love  good-morrow Ixxiii 

HOOD,  Thomas  (1798-1845).  . 

Past  and  Present cclxviii 

The  Bridge  of  Sighs cclxxiv 

The  Death  Bed cclxxix 

HOUQHTON,  Richard  Monckton  Milnes,  Lord  (1809-1885). 
The  Men  of  Old ccclvi 

HUNT,  James  Henry  Leigh  (1784-1859). 

Rondeau cccxliv 

INGELOW,  Jean  (1820-1897). 

The  High  Tide ccclxxxiii 

JONSON,  Ben  (1574-1637). 

The  Noble  Nature xcvi 

Hymn  to  Diana cii 

To  Celia .  cxvi 

KEATS,  John  (1795-1821). 

Ode  on  the  Poets ccix 

On  first  looking  into  Chapman's  Homer      .  ccx 

Happy  Insensibility ccxxxv 

La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci  ......  ccxxxvii 

Bright  Star !        ccxlii 

The  Terror  of  Death ccxliii 

The  Mermaid  Tavern cclxxii 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale  ........  ccxc  , 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent  .     .  ccxcii 

Ode  to  Autumn ccciii 

The  Realm  of  Fancy cccxviii 

Ode  on  a  Grecian  Urn cccxxviii 

The  Human  Seasons   .     .......  cccxxxiii 

KINGSLEY,  Charles  (1819-1875).  » 

Airly  Beacon ccclxxx 

The  Sands  of  Dee ccclxxxi 

Young  and  Old       ccclxxxii 

2H  2 


468  INDEX  OF  WRITERS 

NUMBER 

LAMB,  Mary  (1764-1817). 

In  Memoriam cclxxxiii 

LAMB,  Charles  (1775-1835). 

The  Old  Familiar  Faces cclxiv 

Hester        cclxxvi 

On  an  Infant  dying  as  soon  as  born  .     .     .  cclxxxii 

LANDOR,  Walter  Savage  (1775-1864). 

Rose  Aylmer cccxli 

I  strove  with  none cccxl 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke cccxliii 

To  Robert  Browning cccxlii 

LINDSAY,  Anne  (1750-1825). 

Auld  Robin  Gray         cxcii 

LODGE,  Thomas  (1556-1625). 

Rosaline xix 

Rosalynd's  Madrigal Ixxi 

LOGAN,  John  (1748-1788). 

The  Braes  of  Yarrow        clxiii 

LOVELACE,  Richard  (1618-1658). 

To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars      ,     .     .  cix 

To  Althea  from  Prison cxxvii 

To  Lucasta,  going  beyond  the  Seas    .     .     .  cxxviii 

LYLYE,  John  (1554-1600). 

Cupid  and  Campaspe Ixxii 

LYTE,  Henry  Francis  (1793-1847). 

A  Lost  Love ccxxiv 

Agnes cclxxx 

MACKAY,  Charles  (1814-1889). 

Tubal  Cain ccclxxvi 

MAHONY,  Francis  Sylvester  ("Father  Prout")  (1804-1866). 
The  Shandon  Bells cccxlvii 

MARLOWE,  Christopher  (1562-1593). 

The  Passionate  Shepherd  to  his  Love     .     .  vii 

MARVELL,  Andrew  (.1620-1678). 

Horatian  Ode,  upon  Cromwell's  return  from 

Ireland        Ixxxviii 

The  Picture  of  Little  T.  C cv 

The  Girl  describes  her  Fawn cxli 

Thoughts  in  a  Garden cxlii 

Song  of  the  Emigrants  in  Bermuda'  .     .     .  cxlvi 

MASEFIELD,  John  (1874 ). 

The  West  Wind       .     .' .  ccccii 

The  Golden  City  of  St.  Mary cccciii 

Roadways cccciv 

Sea  Fever ccccv 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS  469 

NUMBER 

MICKLE,  William  Julius  (1734-1788). 

The  Sailor's  Wife cxiv 

MILTON,  John  (1608-1674). 

Ode  on  the  Morning  of  Christ's  Nativity    .  Ixxxv 
On  the  late  Massacre  in  Piedmont     .     .     .  Ixxxyii 

Lycidas Ixxxix 

When  the  Assault  was  intended  to  the  City  xciii 

On  his  Blindness xciv 

To  Mr.  Lawrence xcix 

To  Cyriack  Skinner c 

To  the  Lady  Margaret  Ley cxi 

L' Allegro cxliv 

II  Penseroso cxlv 

At  a  Solemn  Music cxlvii 

MOORE,  Thomas  (1780-1852). 

Echoes .  ccxxix 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night ccxlv 

Pro  Patria  Mori cclxi 

The  Journey  Onwards cclxv 

The  Light  of  Other  Days cclxix 

MORRIS,  William  (1834-1896). 

Summer  Dawn cccxcii 

NAIRN,  Carolina  (1766-1845). 

The  Land  o'  the  Leal cxcviii 

NASH,  Thomas  (1567-1601?). 

Spring i 


NORRIS,  John  (1657-1711). 

Hymn  to  Darkness cxlix 

NORTON,  Caroline  Elizabeth  Sarah  (Lady  Stirling 

Maxwell)  (1808-1877). 
I  do  not  love  thee cccliv 

NOYES,  Alfred  (1880 ). 

Song cccxcix 

Love's  Rosary cccc 

Song  of  Hanrahan  the  Red cccci 

PEACOCK,  Thomas  Love  (1785-1866). 

Three  men  of  Gotham cccxlv 

PHILIPS,  Ambrose  (1671-1749). 

To  Charlotte  Pulteney clvii 

POPE,  Alexander  (1688-1744). 

Solitude     .     .          cliv 

PRIOR,  Matthew  (1662-1721). 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure      .     .  clxxiii 


470  INDEX   OF   WRITERS 

NUMBER 

QUARLES,  Francis  (1592-1644). 

A  Mystical  Ecstasy cxxiii 

ROGERS,  Samuel  (1762-1855). 

The  Sleeping  Beauty clxxi 

A  Wish clxxxv 

ROSSETTI,  Christina  Georgina  (1830-1894). 

Song ccclxxxix 

A  Birthday cccxc 

ROSSETTI,  Dante  Gabriel  (1828-1882). 

The  Blessed  Damozel ccclxxxviii 

SCOTT,  Walter  (1771-1832). 

The  Outlaw ccxiii 

Jock  o'  Hazeldean ccxxvii 

A  Serenade ccxxx 

Where  shall  the  Lover  rest  ? ccxxxvi 

The  Rover ccxxxviii 

The  Maid  of  Neidpath ccxl 

Gathering  Song  of  Donald  the  Black      .     .  ccxlviii 

The  Pride  of  Youth     ........  cclxxiii 

Coronach        cclxxviii 

Rosabelle       cclxxxi 

Hunting  Song cclxxxv 

Datur  flora  Quieti cccxi 

SEDLEY,  Charles  (1639-1701). 

Child  and  Maiden cvi 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  j  lister  am cxxvi 

SHAKESPEARE,  William  (1564-1616). 

The  Fairy  Life,    I ii 

"      II iii 

Sonnet-Time  and  Love,    I v 

"       "       "II yi 

A  Madrigal ix 

Under  the  greenwood  tree x 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass xi 

Sonnet — Absence xiv 

xv 

A  Consolation xvi 

The  Unchangeable xvii 

To  his  Love       . xxiii 

"  "  " xxiy 

Love's  Perjuries xxvii 

Sonnet  —  True  Love xxxi 

Carpe  Diem xxxv 

Winter xxxvjj 

Sonnet —  That  time  of  year xxxyiii 

"         Memory xxxix 

"         Revolutions xli 

Farewell! xlii 

'•        The  Life  without  Passion    .     .     .  xliii 


INDEX   OF  WRITERS  471 

SHAKESPEARE  —  (Continued).  NUMBER 

Frustra  —  Take,  O  take  those  lips  away     .  xlviii 

Sonnet  —  Blind  Love li 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind Ivi 

Dirge  of  Love Ixii 

Fidele  —  Fear  no  more  the  heat    ....  Ixiv 

A  Sea  Dirge Ixv 

Sonnet  —  Post  Mortem Ixvii 

14          The  Triumph  of  Death      .     .     .  Ixyiii 

Young  Love        .  .' Ixix 

Sonnet  —  Soul  and  Body Ixxviii 

The  World's  Way Ixxxii 

SHELLEY,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792-1822;. 

The  Indian  Serenade ccxv 

I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden     ....  ccxix 

Love's  Philosophy ccxxviii 

To  the  Night ccxxxii 

The  Flight  of  Love      . ccxxxix 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned     ....  ccxlvii 
Stanzas  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples  .  cclxx 

To  a  Skylark cclxxxvii 

Ozymandias  of  Egypt ccxciii 

To  a  Lady,  with  a  Guitar     .     .     .     .     .     .  ccc 

The  Invitation cccvii 

The  Recollection cccviii 

To  the  Moon cccxii 

A  Dream  of  the  Unknown cccxv 

Written  among  the  Euganean  Hills  .     .     .  cccxxi 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind cccxxii 

The  Poet's  Dream cccxxiv 

A  Dirge cccxxxiv 

Threnos cccxxxy 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die cccxxxix 

SHIRLEY,  James  (1596-1666). 

The  Last  Conqueror xci 

Death  the  Leveller .  cxii 

SIDNEY,  Philip  (1554-1586). 

Via  Amoris xiii 

A  Ditty xxxii 

Sleep xl 

The  Nightingale xl)™ 

The  Moon Iviii 

SMART,  Christopher  (1722-1770). 

The  Song  of  David clxxix 

SMITH,  Alexander  (1830-1867). 

Barbara cccxci 

SOUTHEY,  Robert  (1774-1843). 

After  Blenheim  .     .     .     . cclx 

The  Scholar cclxxi 


472  INDEX   OF  WRITERS 

NUMBER 

SPENSER,  Edmund  (1553-1598-9). 

Prothalamion Ixxiv 

SUCKLING,  John  (1608-9-1641). 

Encouragements  to  a  Lover cxxix 

SWINBURNE,  Algernon  Charles  (1837-1909). 

Itylus         cccxciv 

A  Forsaken  Garden cccxcv 

SYLVESTER,  Joshua  (1563-1618). 

Love's  Omnipresence xxxiv 

TENNYSON,  Alfred  Lord  (1809-1892). 

As  thro'  the  land  at  eve  we  went  ....  ccclx 

Break,  Break,  Break ccclviii 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud ccclxv 

In  Love,  if  Love  be  Love ccclxyi 

O  Swallow,  Swallow ccclxiii 

Ring  out,  wild  bells ccclxiy 

Tears,  idle  tears ccclxii 

The  Splendour  falls ccclxi 

The  Brook ceclix 

The  Miller's  Daughter ccclvii 

THOMPSON,  Francis  (1859-1907). 

Daisy cccxcvii 

The  Sinking  Sun cccxcviii 

THOMSON,  James  (1700-1748). 

Rule  Britannia clviii 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove    .     .     .  clxxii 

THOMSON,  James  (1834-1882). 

As  we  rush cccxciii 

VAUGHAN,  Henry  (1621-1695). 

The  Retreat        xcviii 

Friends  in  Paradise cxxxviii 

A  Vision cl 

VERSTEGAN,  Richard  (c.  1635). 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits     ....  cxxxiv 

WALLER,  Edmund  (1605-1687). 

Go,  lovely  Rose cxv 

On  a  Girdle         cxxii 

WEBSTER,  John  ( 1638?). 

A  Land  Dirge Ixvi 

WILMOT,  John  (1647-1680). 

Constancy cvii 

WITHER,  George  (1588-1667). 

^  The  Manly  Heart cxxxi 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS  473 

NUMBER 

WOLFE,  Charles  (1791-1823). 

The  Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore cclxii 

To  Mary cclxxvii 

WORDSWORTH,  William  (1770-1850). 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight ccxvii 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways    .     .  ccxx 
I  travell'd  among  unknown  men   ....  ccxxi 

The  Education  of  Nature ccxxii 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal ccxxiii 

Lucy  Gray ccxxvi 

To  a  distant  Friend ccxxxiii 

Desideria ccxliv 

Ode  to  Duty cclii 

England  and  Switzerland,  1802     ....  ccliv 
On  the  extinction  of  the  Venetian  Republic  cclv 

London,  1802 cclvi 

" cclvii 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory      ....  cclviii 

Simon  Lee cclxiii 

A  Lesson        cclxvii 

The  Affliction  of  Margaret cclxxxiv 

To  the  Skylark cclxxxvi 

The  Green  Linnet cclxxxyiii 

To  the  Cuckoo cclxxxix 

Upon  Westminster  Bridge ccxci 

Composed  at  Neidpath  Castle ccxciy 

Admonition  to  a  Traveller ccxcyi 

To  the  Highland  Girl  of  Inversneyde     .     .  ccxvii 

The  Reaper         ccxviii 

The  Reverie  of  poor  Susan ccxcix 

The  Daffodils ccci 

To  the  Daisy cccii 

Yarrow  Unyisited,  1803 cccv 

Yarrow  Visited,  1814        cccyi 

By  the  Sea ccc 

To  Sleep ccc 

The  Inner  Vision ccc 

Written  in  Early  Spring ccc 

Ruth,  or  the  Influence  of  Nature        .     .     .ccc 


Nature  and  the  Poet ccc 

Glen-Almain,  the  Narrow  Glen  ....  ccc 
The  World  is  too  much  with  us  ....  ccc 
Within  King's  College  Chapel,  Cambridge  ccc 

The  Two  April  Mornings ccc 

The  Fountain ccc 

The  Trossachs ccc 

My  heart  leaps  up ccc 


My 
3de 


Ode  on  Intimations  of  Immortality  .     .     .ccc 

WOOTTON,  Henry  (1568-1639). 

Character  of  a  Happy  Life xcv 

Elizabeth  of  Bohemia ex 


vm 


474  INDEX   OF  WRITERS 

NUMBER 

WYAT,  Thomas  (1502-1542). 

A  Supplication xxviii 

The  Lover's  Appeal xliv 

YEATS,  William  Butler  (1865 ). 

The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree     .     .     .     .     .     .  ccccvi 

ANONYMOUS. 

Omnia  Vincit viii 

Colin xx 

A  Picture xxi 

A  Song  for  Music  • xxii 

In  Lacrimas xxx 

Love's  Insight xxxiii 

An  honest  Autolvcus xxxvi 

The  Unfaithful  Shepherdess liii 

Advice  to  a  Lover liv 

A  sweet  Lullaby Ivii 

A  Dilemma Ixx 

The  Great  Adventurer     .     .     .     .     .     .     .civ 

Love  in  thy  youth,  fair  Maid cxiv 

Cherry  Ripe        cxvii 

My  Love  in  her  attire cxxi 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace        ....  cxxv 

Forsaken        cxxxiii 

Fair  Helen cxxxv 

The  Twa  Corbies cxxvi 

Willie  Drowned  in  Yarrow clxiv 

Absence cxcv 


INDEX  OF  FIRST   LINKS 

PACE 

A.  Chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 211 

A  child's  a  plaything  for  an  hour .     .  270 

A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by      .....  305 

A  good  sword  and  a  trusty  hand 351 

A  slumber  did  my  spirit  seal        210 

A  sweet  disorder  in  the  dress 95 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 225 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 235 

Absence,  hear  thou  this  protestation 8 

Ah,  Chloris!   could  I  now  but  sit 86 

Ah,  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 217 

Ah  what  avails  the  sceptred  race 340 

Airly  Beacon,  Airly  Beacon 392 

All  day  I  tell  my  rosary 427 

All  in  the  Downs  the  fleet  was  moor'd 149 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 199 

And  are  ye  sure  the  news  is  true 181 

And  is  this  —  Yarrow?  —  This  the  Stream  .     .     .     .  297 

And  thou  art  dead,  as  young  and  fair 231 

And  wilt  thou  leave  me  thus 26 

Ariel  to  Miranda ;  —  Take 288 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 305 

Art  thou  poor,  yet  hast  thou  golden  slumbers   ...  50 

As  it  fell  upon  a  day 27 

As  I  was  walking  all  alane 107 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 389 

As  slow  our  ship  her  foamy  track 251 

As  thro' the  land  at  eve  we  went 369 

As  we  rush,  as  we  rush  in  the  train 417 

At  the  corner  of  Wood  Street,  when  daylight  appears  288 

At  the  mid  hour  of  night,  when  stars  are  weeping,  I  fly  230 

Avenge,  O  Lord  !  Thy  slaughter'd  saints,  whose  bones  64 

Awake,  Aeolian  lyre,  awake 157 

Awake,  awake,  my  Lyre 101 

Awake!   for  morning  in  the  bowl  of  night     .     .     .     .  358 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth 197 

Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring 13 

Behold  her,  single  in  the  field 287 

Being  your  slave,  what  should  I  do  but  tend     ...  9 

Beneath  these  fruit-tree  boujrhs  that  shed     ....  277 

Brst  and  brightest,  come  away 299 

Bid  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 97 


476  INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Blest  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy      .     .     .  125 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind 34 

Break,  break,  break 367 

Bright  Star !  would  I  were  steadfast  as  thou  art     .     .  228 

Call  for  the  robin-redbreast  and  the  wren      .     .     .     .  41 

Calm  was  the  day,  and  through  the  trembling  air       .  45 

Captain,  or  Colonel,  or  Knight  in  Arms 75 

Care-charmer  Sleep,  son  of  the  Sable  Night       ...  28 

Coldly,  sadly  descends        403 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death .  38 

Come,  cheerful  day,  part  of  my  life  to  me     ....  51 

Come  into  the  garden,  Maud 372 

Come  little  babe,  come  silly  soul 35 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  Love 5 

Come,  Sleep !   O  Sleep !    the  certain  knot  of  peace      .  24 

Come  unto  these  yellow  sands 2 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth 6 

Cupid  and  my  Campaspe"  play'd 44 

Cyriack,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench  ...  80 

Daughter  of  Jove,  relentless  power 188 

Daughter  to  that  good  Earl,  once  President       ...  89 

Day 376 

Degenerate  Douglas !   oh,  the  unworthy  lord     .     .     .  283 

Doth  then  the  world  go  thus,  doth  all  thus  move  .     .  54 

Down  in  yon  garden  sweet  and  gay 147 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 92 

Duncan  Gray  cam  here  to  woo 180 

Earl  March  look'd  on  his  dying  child 228 

Earth  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair    ....  281 

E'en  like  two  little  bank-dividing  brooks       ....  96 

Eternal  Spirit  of  the  chainless  Mind 240 

Ethereal  minstrel !   pilgrim  of  the  sky 273 

Ever  let  the  Fancy  roam 310 

Fain  would  I  change  that  note 6 

Fair  Daffodils,  we  weep  to  see Ill 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree 110 

Farewell !   thou  art  too  dear  for  my  possessing ...  25 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 40 

Fine  knacks  for  ladies,  cheap,  choice,  brave  and  new  22 

Follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow 30 

For  ever,  Fortune,  wilt  thou  prove 155 

Forget  not  yet  the  tried  intent 18 

Four  Seasons  fill  the  measure  of  the  year      ....  339 

From  Harmony,  from  heavenly  Harmony     ....  63 

From  Stirling  Castle  we  had  seen    . 295 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 40 

Gather  ye  rose-buds  while  ye  may 87 

Gem  of  the  crimson-colour'd  Even 218 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  477 

PAGE 

Get  up,  get  up,  for  shame !     The  blooming  morn  .     .  93 

Give  her  but  a  least  excuse  to  love  me 375 

Go  fetch  to  me  a  pint  o'  wine 152 

Go,  lovely  Rose 91 

Grow  old  along  with  me 381 

Hail  thou  most  sacred  venerable  thing 128 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit 274 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wish  and  care 136 

Happy  those  early  days,  when  I 78 

Happy  were  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate      ....  55 

Hark !   ah,  the  nightingale 402 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 90 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 264 

Hence,  all  you  vain  delights 103 

Hence,  loathdd  Melancholy 116 

Hence,  vain  deluding  Joys 120 

He  sang  of  God,  the  mighty  source 164 

High-way,  since  you  my  chief  Parnassus  be       ...  9 

How  do  I  love  thee?     Let  me  count  the  ways  .     .     .  356 

How  graciously  thou  wear'st  the  yoke 425 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 76 

How  like  a  winter  hath  my  absence  been      ....  10 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 144 

How  sweet  the  answer  Echo  makes 217 

How  vainly  men  themselves  amaze 113 

am  monarch  of  all  I  survey 190 

arise  from  dreams  of  Thee 205 

came  to  the  doors  of  the  House  of  Love     ....  426 

cannot  change,  as  others  do 87 

come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 367 

do  not  love  thee !  —  no  !    I  do  not  love  thee    .     .     .  357 

dream'd  that  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way      .     .     .     .  307 

fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden 208 

have  had  playmates,  I  have  had  companions       .     .  250 

have  no  name 165 

heard  a  thousand  blended  notes 312 

know  not  that  the  men  of  old 304 

meet  thy  pensive,  moonlight  face 211 

met  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 282 

must  down  to  the  seas  again,  to  the  lonely  sea  and 

the  sky 432 

remember,  I  remember 254 

saw  Eternity  the  other  night 129 

saw  her  in  childhood 265 

saw  my  lady  weep 19 

saw  where  in  the  shroud  did  lurk 268 

strove  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife        .  349 

thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung       ....  354 

travell'd  among  unknown  men      .......  208 

wander'd  lonely  as  a  cloud        291 


478 


INDEX   OF   FIRST  LINES 


PAGE 

I  was  thy  neighbour  once,  thou  rugged  Pile       .     .     .  827 

I  wish  I  were  where  Helen  lies    ........  106 

If  aught  of  oaten  stop  or  pastoral  song     .....  170 

If  doughty  deeds  my  lady  please      .......  153 

If  I  had  thought  thou  couldst  have  died  .....  263 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  naught     ....  355 

If  Thou  survive  my  well-contented  day    .....  41 

If  to  be  absent  were  to  be       .........  100 

I'm  wearing  awa',  Jean       ..........  184 

n  a  coign  of  the  fcliff  between  lowland  and  highland     .  420 

n  a  drear-nighted  December       ........  222 

n  Love,  if  Love  be  Love,  if  Love  be  ours     ....  375 

n  the  deserted  moqn-blanch'd  street  ......  399 

n  the  downhill  of  life,  when  I  find  I'm  declining  .     .  195 

n  the  sweet  shire  of  Cardigan    ........  248 

n  this  still  place,  remote  from  men     ......  329 

n  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan  .........  308 

It  is  a  beauteous  evening,  calm  and  free  .....  303 

It  is  not  growing  like  a  tree    .........  77 

It  is  the  miller's  daughter  ..........  366 

It's  a  warm  wind,  the  west  wind,  full  of  bird's  cries  .  429 

It  was  a  dismal  and  a  fearful  night       ......  108 

It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass      .........  8 

It  was  a  summer  evening   ..........  244 

I've  heard  them  lilting  at  our  ewe-milking    ....  145 

I  will  arise  and  go  now,  and  go  to  Innisfree  ....  433 

Jack  and  Joan,  they  think  no  ill      .......  115 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met     ........  350 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John         ........  185 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us   ......  376 

Lady,  when  I  behold  the  roses  sprouting       ....  43 

Lawrence,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son     ....  79 

Let  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds     ....  20 

Let's  contend  no  more  .     ..........  379 

Life!   I  know  not  what  thou  art      .......  196 

Like  as  the  waves  make  towards  the  pebbled  shore    .  25 

Like  to  the  clear  in  highest  sphere  .......  12 

Love  in  my  bosom,  like  a  bee      ........  •  43 

Love  in  thy  youth,  fair  Maid,  be  wise      .....  90 

Love  not  me  for  comely  grace     ........  98 

Lo  !   where  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours     ......  166 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be     .......  320 

Mary!    I  want  a  lyre  with  other  strings   .....  191 

Milton  !   thou  shoiildst  be  living  at  this  hour     .     .     .  242 

Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill  .........  169 

Mortality,  behold  and  fear      .........  73 

Most  sweet  it  is  with  unuplifted  eyes  ......  309 

Much  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold       .     .     .  199 

Music,  when  soft  voices  die    .........  346 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  479 

PAGE 

My  days  among  the  Dead  are  past 257 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains      .     .  279 

My  heart  leaps  up  when  I  behold 341 

My  heart's  like  a  singing  bird 414 

My  Love  in  her  attire  doth  shew  her  wit       ....  96 

My  lute,  be  as  thou  wert  when  thou  didst  grow     .     .  39 

My  thoughts  hold  mortal  strife        38 

My  true-love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his      ...  20 

Never  love  unless  you  can 16 

Never  seek  to  tell  thy  love 156 

Nobly,  nobly  Cape  Saint  Vincent  to  the  North-West 

died  away 378 

No  longer  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead 42 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  not  a  funeral  note    ....  247 

Not,  Celia,  that  I  juster  am 98 

Now  the  golden  Morn  aloft 133 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days 301 

O  blithe  new-comer !   I  have  heard 278 

O  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair 203 

O  Friend  !    I  know  not  which  way  I  must  look       .     .  242 

O  happy  shades  !   to  me  unblest 188 

O  if  thou  knew'st  how  thou  thyself  dost  harm  .     .      .18 

O  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me    . 283 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay 266 

O  lovers'  eyes  are  sharp  to  see 227 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be 175 

O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home 393 

O  may  I  join  the  choir  invisible 391 

O  me  !   what  eyes  hath  love  put  in  my  head      ...  31 

O  Mistress  mine,  where  are  you  roaming       ....  22 

O  my  Luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 177 

O  never  -say  that  I  was  false  of  heart .11 

O  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 176 

O  say  what  is  that  thing  call'd  Light 136 

O  Swallow,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South       ....  371 

O  talk  not  to  me  of  a  name  great  in  story     ....  202 

O  Thou,  by  Nature  taught 134 

O  waly  waly  up  the  bank 104 

O  what  can  ail  thee,  knight-at-arms 224 

O  wild  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being    .  325 

O  World !   O  Life  !   O  Time 340 

Oh,  Death  will  never  find  us  in  the  heart  of  the  wood  428 

Oh,  to  be  in  England,  now  that  April's  there     .     .     .  378 

Obscurest  night  involved  the  sky 193 

Of  all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart 151 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw .     .  183 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 237 

Of  Neptune's  empire  let  us  sing 80 

Of  this  fair  volume  which  we  World  do  name    ...  53 

Oft  I  had  heard  of  Lucy  Gray 213 


48o  INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 255 

Oh  snatch'd  away  in  beauty's  bloom 262 

Old  Tubal  Cain  was  a  man  of  might 387 

On  a  day,  alack  the  day 17 

On  a  Poet's  lips  I  slept 329 

Once  did  She  hold  the  gorgeous  East  in  fee  .     .     .     .  241 

On  the  Sabbath-day 414 

One  more  Unfortunate 259 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned «     .     .  233 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 243 

Our  bugles  sang  truce,  for  the  night-cloud  had  lower'd  306 

Out  beyond  the  sunset,  could  I  but  find  the  way  .     .  430 

Out  of  the  night  that  covers  me 422 

Over  the  mountains 84 

Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day 45 

Phoebus,  arise, 2 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 233 

Poor  Soul,  the  centre  of  my  sinful  earth  .....  52 

Pray  but  one  prayer  for  me  'twixt  thy  closed  lips       .  417 

Proud  Maisie  is  in  the  wood 258 

Proud  word  you  never  spoke,  but  you  will  speak  .     .  350 

Queen  and  Huntress,  chaste  and  fair 81 

Ring  out,  wild  bells,  from  the  wild  sky 371 

Rough  Wind,  that  meanest  loud 339 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  King 140 

Seamen  three !   what  men  be  ye 350. 

Season  of  mist  and  mellow  fruitfulness 293 

See  with  what  simplicity 85 

Shall  I  compare  thee  to  a  summer's  day  .....  15 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 102 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways 208 

She  is  not  fair  to  outward  view 207 

She  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 206 

She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 206 

Since  brass,  nor  stone,  nor  earth,  nor  boundless  sea   .  4 

Since  there's  no  help,  come  let  us  kiss  and  part      .     .  30 

Sleep,  angry  beauty,  sleep  and  fear  not  me  ....  31 

Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  Heaven  awhile 154 

Sleep,  sleep,  beauty  bright 16£ 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone 257 

Spring,  the  sweet  Spring,  is  the  year's  pleasant  king  .  1 

Star  that  bringest  home  the  bee 304 

Stern  Daughter  of  the  Voice  of  God 23€ 

Strew  on  her  roses,  roses 403 

Surprized  by  joy  —  impatient  as  the  wind    .     .     .     .  23C 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  Swallow 41£ 

Sweet,  be  not  proud  of  those  two  eyes 9C 

Sweet  Highland  Girl,  a  very  shower 28£ 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES  481 

PAGE 

Sweet  Love,  if  thou  wilt  gain  a  monarch's  glory    .     .  14 

Sweet  stream,  that  winds  through  yonder  glade     .     .  154 

Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave 219 

Take,  O  take  those  lips  away 29 

Tax  not  the  royal  Saint  with  vain  expense   .     ...  331 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean  .     .     .  370 

Tell  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind 88 

Tell  me  where  is  Fancy  bred 42 

That  time  of  year  thou  may'st  in  me  behold     ...  23 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 96 

The  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 409 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day       .     .     .     .  172 

The  forward  youth  that  would  appear 65 

The  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 216 

The  glories  of  our  blood  and  state        74 

The  last  and  greatest  Herald  of  Heaven's  King      .     .  55 

The  lovely  lass  o'  Inverness 144 

The  man  of  life  upright 52 

The  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure 155 

The  more  we  live,  more  brief  appear 338 

The  nightingale,  as  soon  as  April  bringeth    ....  28 

The  old  mayor  climbed  the  belfry  tower 31  4 

The  poplars  are  fell'd ;   farewell  to  the  shade     .     .     .  1C7 

There  be  none  of  Beauty's  daughters 214 

There  is  a  flow,er,  the  lesser  Celandine 253 

There  is  a  garden  in  her  face 12 

There  is  delight  in  singing,  tho'  none  hear     ....  349 
There's  not  a  joy  the  world  can  give  like  that  it  takes 

away 2£H 

There's  not  a  nook  within  this  solemn  Pass  .     .     .     .  24  r 

There  was  a  time  when  meadow,  grove,  and  stream  .  34 1 

The  sed  hath  many  thousand  sands :  : 

The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear 2,T 

The  sun  upon  the  lake  is  low L<  I 

The  splendour  falls  on  castle  walls        o(,r 

The  twentieth  year  is  well-nigh  past If  2 

The  world  is  too  much  with  us ;   late  and  soon       .     .  330 

They  are  all  gone  into  the  world  of  light 109 

The  year's  at  the  spring 375 

They  that  have  power  to  hurt,  and  will  do  none    .     .  26 

This  is  a  spray  the  Bird  clung  to 379 

This  is  the  month,  and  this  the  happy  morn      ...  56 

This  Life,  which  seems  so  fair 51 

Though  others  may  her  brow  adore 21 

Thou  art  not  fair,  for  all  thy  red  and  white  ....  34 

Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness 331 

Three  years  she  grew  in  sun  and  shower        .     .     .     .  209 

Thy  braes  were  bonny,  Yarrow  stream 146 

Timely  blossom,  Infant  fair 138 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I  cry  .     .     .     .  M 

Toll  for  the  Brave     . 148 

2i 


482  INDEX  OF   FIRST  LINES 

PAGE 

To  me,  fair  Friend,  you  never  can  be  old      ....  11 

To  one  who  has  been  long  in  city  pent 282 

Tarn  back,  you  wanton  flyer 16 

'Twas  at  the  royal  feast  for  Persia  won 129 

'Twas  on  a  lofty  vase's  side 137 

Two  Voices  are  there;   one  is  of  the  Sea 241 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 7 

Upon  my  lap  my  sovereign  sits 105 

Verse,  a  breeze  'mid  blossoms  straying 333 

Victorious  men  of  earth,  no  more 74 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 272 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin',  tim'rous  beastie 168 

Weep  not,  my  wanton,  smile  upon  my  knee       ...  37 

Weep  you  no  more,  sad  fountains 14 

Were  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain 21 

We  talk'd  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 336 

We  walk'd  along,  while  bright  and  red 334 

We  watch'd  her  breathing  thro'  the  night      ....  265 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 354 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  God  Pan 356 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad 393 

When  as  in  silks  my  Julia  goes         95 

When  Britain  first  at  Heaven's  command      ....  139 

When  first  the  fiery-mantled  Sun 294 

When  God  at  first  made  Man 78 

When  he  who  adores  thee  has  left  but  the  name    .     .  246 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 413 

When  icicles  hang  by  the  wall 23 

When  I  consider  how  my  light  is  spent 76 

When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed     .     .  243 

When  I  have  fears  that  I  may  cease  to  be     .     .     .     .  229 

When  I  have  seen  by  Time's  fell  hand  defaced       .     .  4 

When  I  survey  the  bright 126 

When  I  think  on  the  happy  days 182 

When  in  disgrace  with  fortune  and  men's  eyes  ...  10 

WThen  in  the  chronicle  of  wasted  time  .   • 15 

When  lovely  woman  stoops  to  folly 156 

When  Love  with  unconfined  wings 99 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die 262 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young       ....  161 

When  Ruth  was  left  half  desolate 313 

When  the  lamp  is  shatter'd 226 

When  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye  at  hame .  178 

When  thou  must  home  to  shades  of  underground  .     .  37 

When  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought     ...  24 

When  we  two  parted 221 

Where  art  thou,  my  beloved  Son 270 

Where  lies  the  land  to  which  the  ship  would  go      .     .  390 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest 222 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES  483 

PAGE 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 2 

Where  the  remote  Bermudas  ride 124 

Where  the  thistle  lifts  a  purple  crown       ....  423 

Whether  on  Ida's  shady  brow 197 

While  that  the  sun  with  his  beams  hot     ."....  32 

Whoe'er  she  be 82 

Why  art  thou  silent?   Is  thy  love  a  plant      ....  220 

Why  so  pale  and  wan,  fond  lover 100 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie 215 

With  deep  affection 352 

With  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st  the  skies  36 

With  little  here  to  do  or  see    .     .     .     , 291 

With  sweetest  milk  and  sugar  first 112 

Ye  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 177 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 157 

Ye  distant  spires,  ye  antique  towers 185 

Ye  Mariners  of  England 235 

Yes,  there  is  holy  pleasure  in  thine  eye 284 

Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  indeed 355 

Yet  once  more,  O  ye  laurels,  and  once  more      .     .    '.  68 

ifou  meaner  beauties  of  the  night 88 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


THE 

GOLDEN    TREASURY 

SELECTED   FROM  THE  BEST  SONGS  AND   LYRICAL 
POEMS   IN  THE  ENGLISH   LANGUAGE 
AND  ARRANGED  WITH  NOTES 

BY 

FRANCIS   T.   PALGRAVE 

LATE  PROFESSOR  OF   POETRY   IN  THE   UNIVERSITY  OF  OXFORD 

SECOND   SERIES 


THE     MACMILLAN     COMPANY 

LONDON  I    M/..O1ILLAN   &   CO.,    LTD. 
1920 


COPYRIGHT,  1897, 
BY  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.  Published  November,  1897. 
Reprinted  January,  September,  1898;  March,  1899; 
July,  1901;  June,  1902;  March,  1903;  March,  1904; 
July,  1905;  June,  July,  1906  ;  January,  1908. 

New  edition  September,  1906;  August,  1909. 
September,  1911;  September,  1912;  March,  19*14; 
December,  1915  ;  November,  1916;  April,  191?. 


Nortooott 
Berwick  ft  Smith  Co.,  Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 

ALFRED   LORD   TENNYSON 

BY   WHOM  THE   FIRST   SERIES 
OF    THE    GOLDEN    TREASURY    WAS 

KINDLY   SUPERVISED 
AND    IN   GRATITUDE   FOR   HIS 

INVARIABLY   FAITHFUL    FRIENDSHIP  AND   COUNSEL 
THROUGH    FORTY   YEARS   AND    MORE 

THIS  BOOK 
IS   SADLY  AND  AFFECTIONATELY   DEDICATED 


The  Vignette —  The  Muse  and  her  Genius  —  reproduces  a 
design  by  Raphael  Sanzio  engraved  in  chiar'  oscuro 
by  a  contemporary  artist. 


PREFACE 


IN  the  former  volume  of  this  selection  our  lyrical 
poetry  was  brought  down  to  1850  (including  hence 
six  of  the  greatest,  poets  who  have  ennobled  the 
century),  but  limited  also  to  the  work  of  writers  no 
longer  alive  in  1861.  We  have  hence  now  to  retrace 
the  stream,  beginning  with  a  period  nearly  corre- 
sponding to  what  has  been  called  the  Victorian, 
during  part  of  which  Wordsworth  in  solitary  grandeur 
was  the  one  surviving  link  between  those  whom  we 
now  almost  think  of,  as  poets  ancient  and  modern. 
The  two  ages  in  fact  overlap.  And  it  was  therefore 
my  first  wish  to  include  in  the  same  volume  the  later 
risen  of  our  stars. 

But  this  plan  proved  impossible.  A  decided  pre- 
ference for  Lyrical  poetry,  —  to  which  in  all  ages  the 
perplexed  or  overburdened  heart  has  fled  for  relief 
and  confession,  — has  shown  itself  for  sixty  years  or 
more;  an  impulse  traceable  in  large  measure  to  the 
increasingly  subjective  temper  of  the  age,  and  indeed 
already  in  different  phases  foreshown  by  Shelley  and 
by  Wordsworth.  From  this  preference  (whilst  the 
national  or  commemorative  Ode  has  become  rare), 
followed  also  a  vast  extension  in  length  of  our  lyrics : 
their  work  is  apt  to  be  less  concentrated  than  that 
of  their  best  predecessors,  classical  or  English : 
whilst,  concurrently,  they  have  at  the  same  time  often 
taken  a  dramatic  character,  rarely  to  be  found  before; 
though  Dryden's  Alexander's  Feast  and  Gray's  Bar d 
are  splendid  exceptions  in  our  earlier  poetry.  Lastly, 
while  during  the  first  quarter  of  the  century  Keats, 
Shelley,  Byron,  died  in  actual  or  comparative  youth, 


within  my  present  range  England  has  been  favoured 
with  the  long  lives  and  persistent  powers  of  our  two 
most  eminent  singers,  whilst  few  of  real  promise  have 
been  cut  off  prematurely. 

Hence,  also,  despite  this  whole  volume  dedicated  to 
a  harvest  of  song  more  copious  than  even  that  famed 
Elizabethan  outflowering,  it  has  not  been  possible  to 
renew  the  attempt  made  in  the  former  book,  wherein 
with  but  three  or  four  exceptions  on  the  ground  of 
length,  all  our  best  lyrics  (so  far  as  I  could  judge) 
were  gathered :  and  a  selection  only  from  the  finest 
work  of  our  greater  Victorian  poets  (so  far  as  my 
choice  may  have  been  happy)  can  alone  be  offered 
here.  It  should  therefore  be  remembered  that  many 
famous  and  favourite  beauties  must  inevitably  be 
wanting  from  the  present  portrait  gallery :  but  I  have 
tried  to  rhake  the  specimens  characteristic  of  each 
writer's  genius.  Despite,  however,  the  wide  difference 
between  the  work,  for  example,  of  Browning  and 
Tennyson,  the  present  series,  as  representing  only  the 
spirit  of  less  than  a  single  century,  wears  a  certain 
monotony  of  character  compared  with  the  vast  range 
of  style  exhibited  in  the  earlier  volume.  Yet  —  and 
yet — after  all,  this  little  book,  as  I  turn  the  pages 
over,  seems  to  have  a  variety  and  wealth  of  power  and 
beauty,  which,  its  range  considered,  is  wonderful. 

This  second  Treasury  has  cost  thrice  the  labour  of 
the  first.  For  nothing,  it  need  scarcely  be  said,  is 
harder  than  to  form  an  estimate  even  remotely  accurate 
of  our  own  contemporary  artists,  whatever  the  sphere 
of  their  art.  This  difficulty,  in  the  former  book,  was 
far  less.  For  its  contents,  the  verdict  of  Time  had 
been  already  largely  given,  and  I  had  also  that 
invaluable  assistance  which  my  Dedication  acknow- 
ledges. I  "may  however  add  (asking  pardon  for 
egotism)  that  the  best  endeavour  within  my  power 
has  been  made  to  hold  the  balance  even  between 
substance  and  form,  the  figure  or  the  drapery,  —  and 
beauty  always  the  last  impression,  —  by  spreading  the 
choice  over  three  or  four  years  during  which  the  poets 
have  been  searched  and  read  over,  and  the  results 
noted  at  many  months'  interval.  Some  check  on  a 
choice  necessarily  imperfect,  and  indeed  convincing 
x 


only  when  the  verdict  of  Time  has  been  given,  —  it  is 
hoped  may  thus  have  been  gained.  But  a  personal 
element  always  remains,  too  often  refusing  to  be 
excluded;  especially  in  case  of  early  favourites,  and 
the  haunting  music  which  has  seized  on  our  youth, 
and  passed  perhaps  physically  into  the  very  nerves  or 
whatever  may  be  that  mysterious  organ  of  Memory 
which  transacts  its  secret  and  inexplicable  life  within 
the  soul's  furthest  recesses. 

The  selection  has  been  brought,  near  as  I  can 
venture,  to  our  own  day.  But,  especially  in  case  of 
those  later  singers  whose  course  is  not  yet  run,  it  is 
all  too  soon  even  to  attempt  a  valuation.  Many 
indeed  and  bright  are  the  blossoms  springing  up 
among  us,  though  nightshade  and  yewberries  be  not 
absent.  It  were,  however,  presumption  if  we  attempted 
with  the  microscope  of  criticism  to  classify  these 
growths,  or  decide  whether  they  belong  to  the  chil- 
dren's '  Adonis  Garden '  of  cut  flowers,  or  the  true 
'immortal  amaranth.'  This  I  leave  to  other  handb 
than  mine  in  the  far-off  summers.  I  have  however 
tried  my  best  to  fill  the  book  with  such  Underwoods 
(to  take  Jonson's  phrase)  as  the  early  Roman  poet 
Naevius  spoke  of  '  wherein  the  copse-wood  is  sown 
by  natural  process,  not  planted;  ' 

Ingenio  arbusta  ubi  nata  sunt,  non  insita : 

—  a  definition,  more  than  two  thousand  years  old, 
of  the  strange  spell  which  lifts  verse  into  poetry 
which  it  would  be  difficult  to  improve.  —  But  here 
that  wearisomely  familiar  '  tastes  differ '  warns  that 
no  invitation  to  its  critical  exercise  more  liberal 
and  alluring  can  be  held  out,  than  is  offered  by  a 
selection  like  the  present.  One  of  the  worldly-wise 
Goethe's  best  aphorisms  was  that  his  opinion  on  any 
matter  was  immensely  strengthened  if  he  found  it 
accepted  by  any  one  fellow-creature.  But  I  cannot 
hope  even  as  much  acceptance  for  this  book.  Varie- 
ties in  taste,  often  deeply  rooted  and  strenuously  held, 
will  lead  every  reader  to  condemn  me  for  omissions 
and  inclusions :  inevitably,  and  rightly.  For  such 
judgments  reveal  the  power  which  poetry,  our  own 
recent  poetry  in  especial,  holds  over  us.  They  testify 


to  life.  All  the  leniency  that  can  be  asked  is  the 
reflection  that  to  love  the  rose  need  not  carry  with 
it  scorn  of  the  lily;  while  the  flowers  of  the  Victorian 
domain  are  so  multitudinous  and  so  nobly  large  in 
the  blossom,  —  like  those  sixty-leaved  roses  which 
Herodotus,  two  thousand  and  more  years  since,  heard 
of  in  the  king's  garden  below  Mount  Bermion,  —  that 
a  limited,  an  imperfect  garland  only  can  be  collected 
within  the  garth  allowed  me. 

It  is  my  pleasant  duty  here  to  give  thanks  once 
for  all  to  the  copyright  proprietors  or  publishers  who 
have  kindly  permitted  me  to  transfer  their  treasures, 
sometimes  almost  too  graspingly,  to  the  enrichment 
of  this  Anthology.  Should  any  claims  have  been 
overlooked  by  inadvertence  I  ask  forgiveness.  Spe- 
cial acknowledgments  will  be  found  in  the  notes. 

I  deeply  regret,  and  every  reader  will  regret  with 
me,  that  I  am  not  able  to  adorn  my  pages  with 
examples  of  Mr.  A.  C.  Swinburne's  brilliant  lyrical 
gift. 

After  the  lapse  of  six-and-thirty  years  to  complete 
a  book  brings  with  it  an  inevitable  sadness:  the 
longing  for  the  irrevocable  ;  the  sigh  for  the  old 
familiar  faces; — of  his,  perhaps,  here  above  all, 
who  privileged  me  to  dedicate  to  his  honoured  name 
that  first  volume  to  which  he  gave  such  invaluable 
aid :  it  is  a  feeling  such  as  that  to  which  Goethe,  in 
one  of  his  most  beautiful  lyrics,  gave  expression,  — 

Sie  horen  nicht  die  folgenden  Gesange, 
Die  Seelen,  denen  ich  die  ersten  sang :  — 

Yet  I  may  hope  perhaps  for  new  friends  to  replace 
the  lost.  Kind  readers!- — if  I  have  the  fortune  to 
find  such  —  may  this  little  selection,  like  the  former, 
with  whatever  deficiencies,  be  the  draught  tempting 
you  to  approach,  in  their  free  fullness,  the  inexhaust- 
ible and  invigorating  fountains,  old  and  new,  of  Eng- 
land's Helicon. 

F.  T.  P. 
February  1897 

xii 


Smrttir 


ODE 

We  are  the  music  makers, 

And  we  are  the  dreamers  of  dreams, 
Wandering  by  lone  sea-breakers, 

And  sitting  by  desolate  streams  ; — 
World-losers  and  world-forsakers, 

On  whom  the  pale  moon  gleams  : 
Yet  we  are  the  movers  and  shakers 

Of  the  world  for  ever,  it  seems. 

With  wonderful  deathless  ditties 
We  build  up  the  world's  great  cities, 

And  out  of  a  fabulous  story 

We  fashion  an  empire's  glory  : 
One  man  with  a  dream,  at  pleasure, 

Shall  go  forth  and  conquer  a  crown  j 
And  three  with  a  new  song's  measure 

Can  trample  a  kingdom  down. 
B 


The   Golden    Treasury 

We,  in  the  ages  lying 

In  the  buried  past  of  the  earth, 
Built  Nineveh  with  our  sighing, 

And  Babel  itself  in  our  mirth  ; 
And  o'erthrew  them  with  prophesying 

To  the  old  of  the  new  world's  worth ; 
For  each  age  is  a  dream  that  is  dying, 

Or  one  that  is  coming  to  birth. 

A.  O1  Shaughnessy 


II 
CRADLE  SONG 

What  does  little  birdie  say 
In  her  nest  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Let  me  fly,  says  little  birdie, 
Mother,  let  me  fly  away. 
Birdie,  rest  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  wings  are  stronger. 
So  she  rests  a  little  longer, 
Then  she  flies  away. 

What  does  little  baby  say, 
In  her  bed  at  peep  of  day  ? 
Baby  says,  like  little  birdie, 
Let  me  rise  and  fly  away. 
Baby,  sleep  a  little  longer, 
Till  the  little  limbs  are  stronger. 
If  she  sleeps  a  little  longer, 
Baby  too  shall  fly  away. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


in 
LETTY'S   GLOBE 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year, 
And  her  young,  artless  words  began  to  flow, 
One  day  we  gave  the  child  a  colour'd  sphere 
Of  the  wide  earth,  that  she  might  mark  and  know, 


Second  Series 

By  tint  and  outline,  all  its  sea  and  land. 

She  patted  all  the  world  ;  old  empires  peep'd 

Between  her  baby  fingers  ;  her  soft  hand 

Was  welcome  at  all  frontiers.     How  she  leap'd, 

And  laugh'd,  and  prattled  in  her  world-wide  bliss ; 

But  when  we  turn'd  her  sweet  unlearned  eye 

On  our  own  isle,  she  raised  a  joyous  cry, 

'  Oh  !  yes,  I  see  it,  Letty's  home  is  there  ! ' 

And,  while  she  hid  all  England  with  a  kiss, 

Bright  over  Europe  fell  her  golden  hair. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 


IV 

THE  SURPRISE 

As  there  I  left  the  road  in  May, 

And  took  my  way  along  a  ground, 

I  found  a  glade  with  girls  at  play, 

By  leafy  boughs  close-hemm'd  around, 

And  there,  with  stores  of  harmless  joys, 

They  plied  their  tongues,  in  merry  noise; 

Though  little  did  they  seem  to  fear 

So  queer  a  stranger  might  be  near  ; 

Teeh-hee  !     Look  here  !    Hah  !  ha  !    Look  there! 

And  oh  !  so  play  some,  oh  !  so  fair. 

And  one  would  dance  as  one  would  spring, 

Or  bob  or  bow  with  leering  smiles. 

And  one  would  swing,  or  sit  and  sing, 

Or  sew  a  stitch  or  two  at  whiles, 

And  one  skipp'd  on  with  downcast  face, 

All  heedless,  to  my  very  place, 

And  there,  in  fright,  with  one  foot  out, 

Made  one  dead  step  and  turn'd  about. 

Heeh,  hee,  oh  I  oh!  ooh!  oo  ! — Look  there! 

And  oh  !  so  playscme,  oh  !  so  fair. 

Away  they  scamper 'd  all,  full  speed, 
By  boughs  that  swung  along  their  track, 
As  rabbits  out  of  wood  at  feed, 
At  sight  of  men  all  scamper  back. 


4  The   Golden   Treasury 

And  one  pull'd  on  behind  her  heel, 

A  thread  of  cotton,  pff  her  reel, 

And  oh  !  to  follow  that  white  clue, 

I  felt  I  fain  could  scamper  too. 

Teeh,  hee,  run  here.     Eeh  !  ee  !    Look  there  \ 

And  oh  !  so  playsome,  oh  !  so  fair. 

W.  Barnes 


iSEULT'S  CHILDREN 

— They  sleep  in  shelter'd  rest, 
Like  helpless  birds  in  the  warm  nest, 
On  the  castle's  southern  side  ; 
Where  feebly  comes  the  mournful  roar 
Of  buffeting  wind  and  surging  tide 
Through  many  a  room  and  corridor. 
— Full  on  their  window  the  moon's  ray 
Makes  their  chamber  as  bright  as  day. 
It  shines  upon  the  blank  white  walls, 
And  on  the  snowy  pillow  falls, 
And  on  two  angel-heads  doth  play 
Turn'd  to  each  other — the  eyes  closed, 
The  lashes  on  the  cheeks  reposed. 
Round  each  sweet  brow  the  cap  close-set 
Hardly  lets  peep  the  golden  hair  ; 
Through  the  soft- open 'd  lips  the  air 
Scarcely  moves  the  coverlet. 
One  little  wandering  arm  is  thrown 
At  random  on  the  counterpane, 
And  often  the  fingers  close  in  haste 
As  if  their  baby-owner  chased 
The  butterflies  again. 
This  stir  they  have,  and  this  alone ; 
But  else  they  are  so  still ! 

— Ah,  tired  madcaps  !  you  lie  still ; 
But  were  you  at  the  window  now, 
To  look  forth  on  the  fairy  sight 
Of  your  illumined  haunts  by  night, 


Second  Series 

To  see  the  park-glades  where  you  play 
Far  lovelier  than  they  are  by  day, 
To  see  the  sparkle  on  the  eaves, 
And  upon  every  giant-bough 
Of  those  old  oaks,  whose  wet  red  leaves 
Are  jewell'd  with  bright  drops  of  rain — 
How  would  your  voices  run  again  ! 
And  far  beyond  the  sparkling  trees 
Of  the  castle-park  one  sees 
The  bare  heaths  spreading,  clear  as  day, 
Moor  behind  moor,  far,  far  away, 
Into  the  heart  of  Brittany. 
And  here  and  there,  lock'd  by  the  land, 
Long  inlets  of  smooth  glittering  sea, 
And  many  a  stretch  of  watery  sand 
All  shining  in  the  white  moon-beams — 
But  you  see  fairer  in  your  dreams  ! 

M.  Arnold 


THE  DESERTED   GARDEN 

I  mind  me  in  the  days  departed, 
How  often  underneath  the  sun, 
With  childish  bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The  beds  and  walks  were  vanish'd  quite ; 
And  wheresoe'er  had  struck  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid, 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  call'd  the  place  my  wilderness ; 
For  no  one'  enter'd  there  but  I. 
The  sheep  look'd  in,  the  grass  to  espy. 
And  pass'd  it  ne'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And  spread  their  boughs  enough  about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a  happy  child. 


The   Golden    Treasury 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  boughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  poplar  tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 

Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white, 

Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 

And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago,  it  might  befall, 
When  all  the  garden  flowers  were  trim, 
The  grave  old  gardener  prided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all, — 

Some  Lady,  stately  overmuch,    . 
Here  moving  with  a  silken  noise, 
Has  blush'd  beside  them  at  the  voice 
That  liken'd  her  to  such. 

Or  these,  to  make  a  diadem, 
She  often  may  have  pluck'd  and  twined; 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind, 
That  few  would  look  at  them. 

Oh,  little  thought  that  Lady  proud, 

A  child  would  watch  her  fair  white  rose, 

When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows, 

And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! — 

Nor  thought  that  gardener  (full  of  scorns 
For  men  unlearn'd  and  simple  phrase,) 
A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise, 
By  creeping  through  the  thorns ! 

To  me  upon  my  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief,  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed. 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted, 
The  blither  place  for  me  1 


Second  Series 

Friends,  blame  me  not  !  a  narrow  ken 
Hath  childhood  twixt  the  sun  and  sward : 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward — 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  ths  rose-tree  wall: 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white — 
How  should  I  know  but  that  they  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  my  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, — 
And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  melancholy  tale) 
To  *  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale,' 
And  Angelina  too. 

For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories  !  till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees, — 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write, 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees, — nor  feel  that  childish  neart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted, 
My  footstep  from  the  moss  which  drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round :  anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 

Another  thrush  may  there  rehearse 
The  x.iadrigals  which  sweetest  are ; 
No  more  frr  me  ! — myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 


The    Golden    Treasury 

Ah  me,  ah  me  !  when  erst  I  lay 
tn  that  child's-nest  so  greenly  wrought, 
I  laugh'd  unto  myself  and  thought 
'  The  time  will  pass  away.' 

And  still  I  laugh'd,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  past  away 
The  childish  time,  some  happier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away ; 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wail, 
Dear  God,  how  seldom,  if  at  all 
Did  I  look  up  to  pray ! 

The  time  is  past : — and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees, 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres 
As  well  as  the  white  rose, — 

When  wiser,  meeker  thoughts  are  given, 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face, 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 
The  colour  draws  from  heaven; — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain, 
But  more  for  Heavenly  promise  free, 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 

E.  B.  Browning 


VII 

BLACKMWORE    MAIDENS 

The  primwrose  in  the  sheade  do  blow, 

The  cowslip  in  the  zun, 
The  thyme  upon  the  down  do  grow, 

The  clote  where  streams  do  run ; 
An'  where  do  pretty  maidens  grow 

An'  blow,  but  where  the  tow'r 
Do  rise  among  the  bricken  tuns, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour. 


Second  Series 

If  you  could  zee  their  comely  gait, 

An'  pretty  feaces'  smiles, 
A-trippen  on  so  light  o'  waight, 

An'  steppen  off  the  stiles  ; 
A-gwain  to  church,  as  bells  do  swing 

An'  ring  'ithin  the  tow'r, 
You'd  own  the  pretty  maidens'  pleace 

Is  Blackniwore  by  the  Stour. 

If  you  vrom  Wimborne  took  your  road, 

To  Stower  or  Paladore, 
An'  all  the  farmers'  housen  show'd 

Their  daughters  at  the  door  ; 
You'd  cry  to  bachelors  at  hwome — 

*  Here,  come  ;  'ithin  an  hour 
You'll  vind  ten  maidens  to  your  mind, 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour.' 

An'  if  you  look'd  'ithin  their  door, 

To  zee  'em  in  their  pleace, 
A-doen  housework  up  avore 

Their  smilen  mother's  feace  ; 
You'd  cry — *  Why,  if  a  man  would  wive 

An'  thrive,  'ithout  a  dow'r, 
Then  let  en  look  en  out  a  wife 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour.' 

As  I  upon  my  road  did  pass 

A  school-house  back  in  May, 
There  out  upon  the  beaten  grass 

Wer  maidens  at  their  play  ; 
An'  as  the  pretty  souls  did  tweil 

An'  smile,  I  cried,  *  The  flow'r 
O'  beauty,  then,  is  still  in  bud 

In  Blackmwore  by  the  Stour.' 

W.  Barnts 


io  The   Golden    Treasury 

VIII 

LITTLE  SOPHY  BY  THE  SEASIDE 

Young  Sophy  leads  a  life  without  alloy 
Of  pain  ;  she  dances  in  the  stormy  air  ; 
While  her  pink  sash  and  length  of  golden  hair 
With  answering  motion  time  her  step  of  joy  ! 

Now  turns  she  through  that  seaward  gate  of  heaven, 
That  opens  on  the  sward  above  the  cliff, — 
Glancing  a  moment  at  each  barque  and  skiff, 
Along  the  roughening  waters  homeward  driven  ; 

Shoreward  she  hies,  her  wooden  spade  in  hand, 
Straight  down  to  childhood's  ancient  field  of  play, 
To  claim  her  right  of  common  in  the  land 
Where  little  edgeless  tools  make  easy  way — 
A  right  no  cruel  Act  shall  e'er  gainsay, 
No  greed  dispute  the  freedom  of  the  sand. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 


IX 

THE  PET  NAME 

I  have  a  name,  a  little  name, 

Uncadenced  for  the  ear, 
Unhonour'd  by  ancestral  claim, 
Unsanctified  by  prayer  and  psalm, 
The  solemn  font  anear. 

It  never  did,  to  pages  wove 
For  gay  romance,  belong, 
It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  '  Sacharissa,'  unto  love — 
*  Orinda,'  unto  song. 


Second  Series  II 

Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none, 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead, 
Will  ne'er  be  graved  for  sight  or  tread, 

Across  my  funeral  stone. 

This  name,  whoever  chance  to  call, 

Perhaps  your  smile,  may  win  ; 
Nay,  do  not  smile  !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes,  and  feel  withal 

The  sudden  tears  within. 

Is  there  a  leaf  that  greenly  grows 

Where  summer  meadows  bloom, 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows, 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those, 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

Is  there  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game, 

But  time  encrusteth  round 
With  sad  associate  thoughts  the  same  ? 
And  so  to  me  my  very  name 

Assumes  a  mournful  sound. 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
When  we  were  children  twain  ; 

When  names  acquired  baptismally 

Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill — 
And  through  the  wood  our  laugh  did  run 
As  part  thereof !     The  mirth  being  done, 

He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

Nay,  do  not  smile  !     I  hear  in  it 

What  none  of  you  can  hear  ! 
The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 

Around,  our  human  cheer. 


12  The    Golden    Treasury 

I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss, 
My  sisters'  woodland  glee, — 
My  father's  praise,  I  did  not  miss, 
When  stooping  down  he  cared  to  kiss 
The  poet  at  his  knee  ; — 

And  voices,  which  to  name  me,  aye 

Their  tenderest  tones  were  keeping  !— 
To  some,  I  never  more  can  say 
An  answer,  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven,  these  drops  of  weeping. 

My  name  to  me  a  sadness  wears  ; 

No  murmurs  cross  my  mind  : 
Now  God  be  thank 'd  for  these  thick  tears> 
Which  show,  of  those  departed  years, 

Sweet  memories  left  behind  ! 

Now  God  be  thank 'd  for  years  en  wrought 

With  love  which  softens  yet  ! 
Now  God  be  thank 'd  for  every  thought 
Which  is  so  tender,  it  hath  caught 
Earth's  guerdon  of  regret  ! 

The  earth  may  sadden,  not  remove, 

Our  love  divinely  given  ; 
And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 
The  immortality  of  love 

And  lead  us  nearer  Heaven. 
£.  B. 


x 

THE    TOYS 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes 

And  moved  and  spoke  in  quiet  grown-up  wise, 

Having  my  law  the  seventh  time  disobey'd, 

I  struck  him,  and  dismiss'd 

With  hard  words  and  unkiss'd, 

His  Mother,  who  was  patient,  being  dead. 


Second  Series  13 

Then,  fearing  lest  his  grief  should  hinder  sleep, 

I  visited  his  bed, 

But  found  him  slumbering  deep, 

With  darken'd  eyelids,  and  their  lashes  yet 

From  his  late  sobbing  wet. 

And  I,  with  moan, 

Kissing  away  his  tears,  left  others  of  my  own ; 

For,  on  a  table  drawn  beside  his  head, 

He  had  put,  within  his  reach, 

A  box  of  counters  and  a  red-vein'd  stone, 

A  piece  of  glass  abraded  by  the  beach 

And  six  or  seven  shells, 

A  bottle  with  bluebells 

And  two  French  copper  coins,  ranged  there  with 

careful  art, 

To  comfort  his  sad  heart. 
So  when  that  night  I  pray'd 
To  God,  I  wept,  and  said : 
Ah,  when  at  last  we  lie  with  tranced  breath, 
Not  vexing  Thee  in  death, 
And  Thou  rememberest  of  what  toys 
We  made  our  joys, 
How  weakly  understood 
Thy  great  commanded  good, 
Then,  fatherly  not  less 

Than  I  whom  Thou  hast  moulded  from  the  clay, 
Thou'lt  leave  Thy  wrath,  and  say, 
'  I  will  be  sorry  for  their  childishness. ' 

C.  Patmore 


XI 
THE    CRY  OF   THE   CHILDREN 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers, 

Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years  ? 
They    are    leaning    their   young   heads   against    their 
mothers, — 

And  that  cannot  stop  their  tears. 


14  The    Golden    Treasury 

The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the  meadows ; 

The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the  nest ; 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the  shadows ; 

The  young  flowers  are  blowing  toward  the  west— - 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

They  are  weeping  bitterly  ! — 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of  the  others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

Do  you  question  the  young  children  in  the  sorrow. 

Why  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? — 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to-morrow 

Which  is  lost  in  Long  Ago — 
The  old  tree  is  leafless  in  the  forest — 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost — 
The  old  wound,  if  stricken,  is  the  sorest — 

The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost : 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of  their  mothers, 

In  our  happy  Fatherland  ? 

They  look  up  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see, 
For  the  man's  grief  abhorrent,  draws  and  presses 

Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy — 
'  Your  old  earth,'  they  say,  '  is  very  dreary ; ' 

*  Our  young  feet,'  they  say,  '  are  very  weak  ! 
Few  paces  have  we  taken,  yet  are  weary — 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek. 
Ask  the  old  why  they  weep,  and  not  the  children, 

For  the  outside  earth  is  cold, — 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without,  in  our  bewildering, 

And  the  graves  are  for  the  old. 

'  True,'  say  the  young  children,  '  it  may  happen 

That  we  die  before  our  time. 
Little  Alice  died  last  year — the  grave  is  shapen 

Like  a  snowball  in  the  rime. 
We  look'd  into  the  pit  prepared  to  take  her — 

Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the  close  clay : 
From  the  sleep  wherein  she  lieth  none  will  wake  her, 
Crying,  "  Get  up,  little  Alice  !  it  is  day." 


Second  Series  15 

If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and  shower, 

With  your  ear  down,  little  Alice  never  cries  ! — 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we  should  not  know  her, 

For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing  in  her  eyes, — 
And  merry  go  her  moments,  lull'd  and  still'd  in 

The  shroud,  by  the  kirk-chime  ! 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,'  say  the  children, 
*  That  we  die  before  our  time. 

*  For  oh,'  say  the  children,  '  we  are  weary, 

And  we  cannot  run  or  leap — 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were  merely 

To  drop  down  in  them  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stooping — 

We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go ; 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids  drooping, 

The  reddest  flower  would  look  as  pale  as  snow. 
For,  all  day,  we  drag  our  burden  tiring, 

Through  the  coal -dark,  underground — 
Or,  all  day,  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 

*  For,  all  day,  the  wheels  are  droning,  turning, — 

Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces, — 
Till  our  hearts  turn, — our  head,  with  pulses  burning, 

And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places — 
Turns  the  sky  in  the  high  window  blank  and  reeling — 
Turns  the  long  light  that  droppeth  down  the  wall — 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along  the  ceiling —  . 

All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we  with  all. — 
And  all  day,  the  iron  wheels  are  droning ; 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
"O  ye  wheels,"  (breaking  out  in  a  mad  moaning) 
"  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  !  " ' 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O  my  brothers, 

To  look  up  to  Him  and  pray — 
So  the  blessed  One,  who  blesseth  all  the  others, 

Will  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  '  Who  is  God  that  He  should  hear  us, 

While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels  is  stirr'd? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  creatures  near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not  a  word  ! 


1 6  The  Golden  Treasury 

And  we  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in  their  resounding) 

Strangers  speaking  at  the  door : 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing  round  Him, 

Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 

'  But,  no  ! '  say  the  children,  weeping  faster, 

'  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone ; 
And  they  tell  us,  of  His  image  is  the  master 

Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  ! '  say  the  children, — *  Up  in  Heaven, 

Dark,  wheel-like,  turning  clouds  are  all  we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us ;  grief  has  made  us  unbelieving — 

We  look  up  for  God,  but  tears  have  made  us  blind. 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and  disproving, 

O  my  brothers, -what  ye  preach? 
For  God's  possible" is  taught  by  His  world's  loving — 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

They  look  up,  with  their  pale  and  sunken  faces, 

And  their  look  is  dread  to  see, 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in  their  places, 

With  eyes  meant  for  Deity; — 
'  How  long,'  they  say,  '  how  long,  O  cruel  nation, 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world,  on  a  child's 

heart, — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mail'd  heel  its  palpitation, 

And  tread  onward  to  your  throne  amid  the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  our  tyrants, 

And  your  purple  shows  your  path ; 
But  the  child's  sob  curseth  deeper  in  the  silence 
Than  the  strong  man  in  his  wrath  ! ' 

£.  J3.  Browning 


XII 

OUR  MARY  AND  THE  CHILD  MUMMY 

When  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  shall  rise, 
Men,  women,  children,  at  the  Judgment-time, 
Perchance  this  Memphian  girl,  dead  ere  her  prime, 
Shall  drop  her  mask,  and  with  dark  new-born  eyes 


Second  Series  17 

Salute  our  English  Mary,  loved  and  lost ; 

The  Father  knows  her  little  scroll  of  prayer, 

And  life  as  pure  as  His  Egyptian  air  : 

For,  though  she  knew  not  Jesus,  nor  the  cost 

At  which  He  won  the  world,  she  learn'd  to  pray  ; 

And  though  our  own  sweet  babe  on  Christ's  good 

name 

Spent  her  last  breath,  premonish'd  and  advised 
Of  Him,  and  in  His  glorious  Church  baptized, 
She  will  not  spurn  this  old-world  child  away, 
Nor  put  her  poor  embalmed  heart  to  shame. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 


XIII 

MARGARET  LOVE    PEACOCK 

THREE   YEARS   OLD 

Long  night  succeeds  thy  little  day  : 
O,  blighted  blossom  !  can  it  be 

That  this  gray  stone  and  grassy  clay 
Have  closed  our  anxious  care  of  thee  ? 

The  half-form'd  speech  of  artless  thought, 
That  spoke  a  mind  beyond  thy  years, 

The  song,  the  dance  by  Nature  taught, 
The  sunny  smiles,  the  transient  tears, 

The  symmetry  of  face  and  form, 
The  eye  with  light  and  life  replete, 

The  little  heart  so  fondly  warm, 
The  voice  so  musically  sweet, — 

These,  lost  to  hope,  in  memory  yet 
Around  the  hearts  that  loved  thee  cling, 

Shadowing  with  long  and  vain  regret 
The  too  fair  promise  of  thy  Spring. 

T.  L.  Peacock 


18  The  Golden  Treasury 

XIV 

THE  WAIL  OF  THE  CORNISH  MOTHER 

They  say  'tis  a  sin  to  sorrow, 
That  what  God  doth  is  best ; 

But  'tis  only  a  month  to-morrow 
I  buried  it  from  my  breast. 

I  thought  it  would  call  me  Mother, 
The  very  first  words  it  said  : 

O,  I  never  can  love  another 

Like  the  blessed  babe  that's  dead. 

Well !  God  is  its  own  dear  Father ; 

It  was  carried  to  church,  and  bless'd  ; 
And  our  Saviour's  arms  will  gather 

Such  children  to  their  rest. 

I  will  make  my  best  endeavour 
That  my  sins  may  be  forgiven ; 

I  will  serve  God  more  than  ever : 
To  meet  my  child  in  heaven. 

I  will  check  this  foolish  sorrow, 
For  what  God  doth  is  best- 
But  O,  'tis  a  month  to-morrow 
I  buried  it  from  my  breast ! 

R.  S.  Hawker 


XV 

It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  delight : 
And,  though  we  all  foresaw  his  early  doom, 
We  kept  the  fearful  secret  out  of  sight ; 
We  saw  the  canker,  but  she  kiss'd  the  bloom. 

And  yet  it  might  not  be  :  we  could  not  brook 
To  vex  her  happy  heart  with  vague  alarms, 
To  blanch  with  fear  her  fond  intrepid  look, 
Or  send  a  thrill  through  those  encircling  arms. 


Second  Series  IQ 

She  smiled  upon  him,  waking  or  at  rest : 
She  could  not  dream  her  little  child  would  die : 
She  toss'd  him  fondly  with  an  upward  eye : 
She  seem'd  as  buoyant  as  a  summer  spray, 
That  dances  with  a  blossom  on  its  breast, 
Nor  knows  how  soon  it  will  be  borne  away. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 

XVI 

IN  THE  CHILDREN'S  HOSPITAL 


Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen 

him  before, 
But  he  sent  a  chill  to  my  heart  when  I  saw  him  come 

in  at  the  door, 
Fresh  from  the  surgery- schools  of  France  and  of  other 

lands — 
Harsh  red  hair,  big  voice,  big  chest,  big  merciless 

hands ! 
Wonderful  cures  he  had  done,  O  yes,  but  they  said 

too  of  him 
He  was  happier  using  the  knife  than  in  trying  to  save 

the  limb, 
And  that  I  can  well  believe,  for  he  look'd  so  coarse 

and  so  red, 
I  could  think  he  was  one  of  those  who  would  break 

their  jests  on  the  dead, 
And  mangle  the  living  dog  that  had  loved  him  and 

fawn'd  at  his  knee — 
Drench'd   with   the    hellish    oorali — that   ever  such 

things  should  be  ! 

Here  was  a  boy — I  am  sure  that  some  of  our  children 

would  die 
But  for  the  voice  of  Love,  and  the  smile,  and  the 

comforting  eye- 
Here  was  a  boy  in  the  ward,  every  bone  seem'd  out  of 

its  place — 

Caught  in  a  mill  and  crush'd — it  was  all  but  a  hope- 
less case  : 


20  The    Golden    Treasury 

And  he  handled  him  gently  enough ;  but  his  voice 

and  his  face  were  not  kind, 
And  it  was  but  a  hopeless  case,  he  had  seen  it  and 

made  up  his  mind, 
And  he  said  to  me  roughly  *  The  lad  will  need  little 

more  of  your  care. ' 
'All  the  more  need,'  I  told  him,  'to  seek  the  Lord 

Jesus  in  prayer  ; 
They  are  all  His  children  here,  and  I  pray  for  them 

all  as  my  own  : ' 
But  he  turn'd  to  me,  *  Ay,  good  woman,  can  prayer 

set  a  broken  bone  ? ' 
Then  he  mutter'd  half  to  himself,  but  I  know  that  I 

heard  him  say 
*  All  is  very  well — but  the  good  Lord  Jesus  has  had  His 

day.' 

Had  ?   has  it  come  ?     It  has  only  dawn'd.     It  will 

come  by  and  by. 
O  how  could  I  serve  in  the  wards  if  the  hope  of  the 

worjd  were  a  lie  ? 
How  could  I  bear  with  the  sights  and  the  loathsome 

smells  of  disease 
But  that  He  said  *  Ye  do  it  to  Me,  when  ye  do  it  to 

these '  ? 

So  he  went.     And  we  past  to  this  ward  where  the 

younger  children  are  laid  : 
Here  is  the  cot  of  our  orphan,  our  darling,  our  meek 

little  maid  ; 
Empty  you  see  just  now  !     We  have  lost  her  who 

loved  her  so  much — 
Patient  of  pain  tho'  as  quick  as  a  sensitive  plant  to 

the  touch  ; 
Hers  was  the  prettiest  prattle,  it  often  moved  me  to 

tears, 
Hers  was  the  gratefullest  heart   I  have  found  in  a 

child  of  her  years — 
Nay  you  remember  our  Emmie  ;  you  used  to  send  her 

the  flowers  ; 
How  she  would  smile  at  'em,  play  with  'em,  talk  to 

'em  hours  after  hours  ! 


Second  Series  21 

They  that  can  wander  at  will  where  the  works  of  the 

Lord  are  reveal'd 
Little  guess  what  joy  can  be  got  from  a  cowslip  out  of 

the  field ; 
Flowers  to  these  '  spirits  in  prison  '  a^e  all  they  can 

know  of  the  spring, 
They  freshen  and  sweeten  the  wards  like  tha  waft  of 

an  Angel's  wing  ; 
And  she  lay  with  a  flower  in  one  hand  and  her  thin 

hands  crost  on  her  breast — 
Wan,    but   as   pretty   as   heart    can   desire,   and   we 

thought  her  at  rest, 
Quietly  sleeping — so   quiet,    our   doctor   said    '  Poor 

little  dear, 
Nurse,  I   must  do   it    to-morrow  ;    she'll   never  live 

thro'  it,  I  fear.' 

I  walk'd  with  our  kindly  old  doctor  as  far  as  the  head 

of  the  stair, 
Then  I  return'd  to  the  ward ;  the  child  didn't  see  I 

was  there. 

Never  since  I  was  nurse,  had  I  been  so  grieved  and 

so  vext ! 
Emmie  had  heard  him.     Softly  she  call'd  from  her 

cot  to  the  next, 
*  He  says  I   shall  never  live  thro'  it,  O  Annie,  what 

shall  I  do  ?  ' 
Annie  consider'd.     '  If  I,'  said  the  wise  little  Annie, 

*  was  you, 
I  should  cry  to  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  to  help  me,  for, 

Emmie,  you  see, 
It's  all  in  the  picture  there  :  "  Little  children  should 

come  to  Me. "  ' 
(Meaning  the  print  that  you  gave  us,  I  find  that  it 

always  can  please 
Our  children,  the  dear  Lord  Jesus  with  children  about 

His  knees. ) 
'  Yes,  and  I  will,'  said  Emmie,  '  but  then  if  I  call  to 

the  Lord, 
How  should  He  know  that  it's  me  ?  such  a  lot  of  beds 

in  the  ward  1 ' 


22  The    Golden    Treasury 

That  was  a  puzzle  for  Annie.     Again  she  con^ider'd 

and  said  : 
'  Emmie,  you  put  out  your  arms,  and  you  leave  'em 

outside  on  the  bed — 
The  Lord  has  so  imich  to  see  to  !  but,  Emmie,  you 

tell  it  Him  plain, 
It's  the  little  girl  with  her  arms  lying  out  on  the 

counterpane. ' 

I   had  sat  three   nights   by  the   child — I   could   not 

watch  her  for  four — 
My  brain  had  begun  to  reel — I  felt  I  could  do  it  no 

more. 
That  was   my  sleeping-night,   but  I  thought   that  it 

never  would  pass. 
There  was  a  thunderclap  once,  and  a  clatter  of  hail  on 

the  glass, 
•And  there  was  a  phantom  cry  that  I  heard  as  I  tost 

about, 
The  motherless  bleat  of  a  lamb  in  the  storm  and  the 

darkness  without  ; 
My  sleep  was   broken   besides   with   dreams  of  the 

dreadful  knife 
And  fears  for  our  delicate  Emmie  who  scarce  would 

escape  with  her  life  ; 
Then  in  the  gray  of  the  morning  it  seem'd  she  stood 

by  me  and  smiled, 
And  the  doctor  came  at  his  hour,  and  we  went  to 

see  the  child. 

He  had  brought  his  ghastly  tools :   we  believed  her 

asleep  again — 
Her  dea/,  long,  lean,  little    arms    lying   out  on  the 

counterpane  ; 
Say  that  His  day  is  done  !     Ah  why  should  we  care 

what  they  say  ? 
The  Lord  of  the  children  had  heard  her,  and  Emmie 

had  past  away. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


Second  Series  23 


XVII 

THE  MOTHER'S  DREAM 

I'd  a  dream  to-night 
As  I  fell  asleep, 
Oh  !  the  touching  sight 
Makes  me  still  to  weep  : 
Of  my  little  lad, 
Gone  to  leave  me  sad, 
Aye,  the  child  I  had, 
But  was  not  to  keep. 

As  in  heaven  high, 
I  my  child  did  seek, 
There,  in  train,  came  by 
Children  fair  and  meek, 
Each  in  lily  white, 
With  a  lamp  alight ; 
Each  was  clear  to  sight, 
But  they  did  not  speak. 

Then,  a  little  sad, 
Came  my  child  in  turn, 
But  the  l?,mp  he  had, 
Oh  !  it  did  not  burn  ; 
He,  to  clear  my  doubt, 
Said,  half  turn'd  about, 
'  Your  tears  put  it  out ; 
Mother,  never  mourn. ' 

W.  Barnes 


XVIII 

SIMPLE  NATURE 

Be  it  not  mine  to  steal  the  cultured  flower 
From  any  garden  of  the  rich  and  great, 

Nor  seek  with  care,  through  many  a  weary  hour, 
Some  novel  form  of  wonder  to  create.. 


24  The    Golden    Treasury 

Enough  for  me  the  leafy  woods  to  rove, 

And  gather  simple  cups  of  morning  dew, 
Or,  in  the' fields  and  meadows  that  I  love, 

Find  beauty  in  their  bells  of  every  hue. 
Thus  round  my  cottage  floats  a  fragrant  air, 

And  though  the  rustic  plot  be  humbly  laid, 
Yet,  like  the  lilies  gladly  growing  there, 

I  have  not  toil'd,  but  take  what  God  has  made. 
My  Lord  Ambition  pass'd,  and  smiled  in  scorn  > 
I  pluck'd  a  rose,  and,  lo  !  it  had  no  thorn. 

G.  J.   Romanes 


XIX 

<DtL    GUSTIBUS ' 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees 

(If  our  loves  remain), 

In  an  English  lane, 

By  a  cornfield-side  a-flutter  with  poppies. 
Hark,  those  two  in  the  hazel  coppice  — 
A  boy  and  a  girl,  if  the  good  fates  please, 

Making  love,  say, — 

The  happier  they  ! 

Draw  yourself  up  from  the  light  of  the  moon, 
And  let  them  pass,  as  they  will  too  soon, 

With  the  bean-flowers'  boon, 

And  the  blackbird's  tune, 

And  May,  and  June  ! 

What  I  Iov3  best  in  all  the  world 
Is  a  castle,  precipice-encurl'd, 
In  a  gash  of  the  wind-grieved  Apennine. 
Or  look  for  me,  old  fellow  of  mine 
(If  I  get  my  head  from  out  the  mouth 
O'  the  grave,  and  loose  my  spirit's  bands, 
And  come  again  to  the  land  of  lands),— 
In  a  sea-side  house  to  the  farther  South, 
Where  the  baked  cicala  dies  of  drouth, 
And  one  sharp  tree — 'tis  a  cypress — stands, 
By  the  many  hundred  years  red-rusted, 
Rough  iron-spiked,  ripe  fruit-o'ercrusted, 


Second  Series  25 

My  sentinel  to  guard  the  sands 

To  the  water's  edge.      For,  what  expands 

Before  the  house,  but  the  great  opaque 

Biue  breadth  of  sea  without  a  break? 

Whi  e,  in  the  house,  lor  ever  crumbles 

S  me  fragment  of  the  frescoed  walls, 

F i- Jin  M.sters  where  a  scorpion  sprawls. 

A  girl  bare-footed  brings,  and  tumbles 

l).j\v  i  tin  the  pavement,  green-flesh  melons, 

A  id  s  iy  .  theie's  news  to-day  —  the  king 

lv\\is  sli  »i  at,  touch 'd  in  the  liver-wing, 

.Joe-  A-ith  IKS  Bourbon  arm  in  a  sling: 

— Slie  h-.ucs  they  have  not  caught  the  felons. 

Italy,  my  Italy  ! 

^)aee:i  Mary's  saying  serves  for  me  — 

(When  fortune's  malice 

Lost  her  — Calais) — 

Open  my  heart  and  you  will  see 

Graved  inside  of  it,  '  Italy.' 

Such  lovers  old  are  I  and  she  : 

So  it  always  was,  so  shall  ever  be  ! 

R.   Browning 


XX 

MY  EARLY  HOME 

Here  sparrows  build  upon  th~  trees, 
And  stockdove  hides  her  nest ; 

The  leaves  are  winnow'd  by  the  breeze 
Into  a  calmer  rest  ; 

The  black -cap's  song  was  very  sweet, 
That  used  the  rose  to  kiss  ; 

It  made  the  Paradise  complete  : 


:)mplct< 
.s  this. 


My  early  home  wa: 

The  redbreast  from  the  sweet-briar  bush 
Drop't  down  to  pick  the  v/orm  ; 

On  the  horse-chestnut  sam>  the  thrush, 
O'er  the  house  where  I  was  born: 


26  The   Golden    Treasury 

The  moonlight,  like  a  shower  of  pearls, 
Fell  o'er  this  '  bower  of  bliss,' 

And  on  the  bench  sat  boys  and  girls : 
My  early  home  was  this. 

The  old  house  stoop'd  just  like  a  cave, 

Thatch'd  o'er  with  mosses  green  ; 
Winter  around  the  walls  would  rave, 

But  all  was  calm  within  ; 
The  trees  are  here  all  green  agen, 

Here  bees  the  flowers  still  kiss, 
But  flowers  and  trees  seem'd  sweeter  then  : 

My  early  home  was  this. 

/.    Clare 


XXI 

TWO  IN  THE   CAMPAGNA 

I  wonder  do  you  feel  to-day 

As  I  have  felt,  since,  hand  in  hand, 

We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 

This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 

For  me,  I  touch'd  a  thought,  I  know, 

Has  tantalized  me  many  times, 
(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 

Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes        0 
To  catch  at  and  let  go. 

Help  me  to  hold  it  !     First  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  ;  yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft, 

Where  one  small  orange  cup  amass'd 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 

Among  the  honey-meal  :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 

I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast ! 


Se:ond  Series  27 

The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 

Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 
Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 

An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 
Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 

Such  life  there,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 

Such  miracles  perform'd  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  Nature  have  her  way 
While  Heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 

How  say  you?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above  ! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 
You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 

Nor  yours,  nor  mine, — nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?  what  the  core 

Of  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 

See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 

At  your  soul's  springs, — your  part,  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.      I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth, — I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 
Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 
Fix'd  by  no  friendly  star  ? 


Tht    Golden    Treasury 

•usi  when  I  seem'd  about  to  learn  ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now?     Off  again, 
I  he  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern — 

In. "mite  passion,  and  the  pain 
>•   anile  hearts  that  yearn. 

R.  Browning 


XXII 

THE  BROCK 

I  -erne  from  haunts  of  coot  and  herns 

I  make  a  sudden  sally, 
And  sparkle  out  among  the  fern, 

To  bicker  down  a  valley. 

by  thirty  hills  I  hurry  down, 
Or  slip  between  the  ridges, 

By  twenty  thorps,  a  little  town, 
And  half  a  hundred  bridges. 

Vill  last  by  Philip's  farm  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

£  cr  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

\  chatter  over  stony  ways, 
In  little  sharps  and  trebles, 

1  bubble  into  eddying  bays, 
I  babble  on  the  pebbles. 

With  many  a  curve  my  banks  I  fret 
By  many  a  field  and  fallow, 

A.nd  many  a  fairy  foreland  set 
With  willow- weed  and  mallow. 

I  chatter,  chatter,  as  I  flow 
To  join  the  brimming  river, 

For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go. 
But  I  go  on  for  ever. 


Second  Series  2Q 

I  wind  about,  and  in  and  out, 

With  here  a  blossom  sailing, 
And  here  and  there  a  lusty  trout, 

And  here  and  there  a  grayling, 

And  here  and  there  a  foamy  flake 

Upon  me,  as  I  travel 
With  many  a  silvery  waterbreak 

Above  the  golden  gravel, 

And  draw  them  all  along,  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go« 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

I  steal  by  lawns  and  grassy  plots, 

I  slide  by  hazel  covers  ; 
I  move  the  sweet  forget-me-nots 

That  grow  for  happy  lovers. 

I  slip,  I  slide,  I  gloom,  I  glance, 
Among  my  skimming  swallows  ; 

I  make  the  netted  sunbeam  dance 
Against  my  sandy  shallows. 

I  murmur  under  moon  and  stars 

In  brambly  wildernesses ; 
I  linger  by  my  shingly  bars  ; 

I  loiter  round  my  cresses  ; 

And  out  again  I  curve  and  flow 

To  join  the  brimming  river, 
For  men  may  come  and  men  may  go, 

But  I  go  on  for  ever. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 

XXIII 

THE   GLORY  OF  NATURE 

if  only  once  the  chariot  of  the  Morn 

Had  scatter'd  from  its  wheels  the  twilight  dun. 
But  once  the  unimaginable  Sun 

Flash'd  godlike  through  perennial  clouds  forlorn. 

And  shown  us  Beauty  for  a  moment  born  : 


30  The   Golden    Treasury 

If  only  once  blind  eyes  had  seen  the  Spring 
Waking  among  the  triumphs  of  midnoon, 
But  once  had  seen  the  lovely  Summer  boon, 
Pass  by  in  state  like  a  full  robed  king, 
The  waters  dance,  the  woodlands  laugh  and  sing : 

If  only  once  deaf  ears  had  heard  the  joy 

Of  the  wild  birds,  or  morning  breezes  blowing, 
Of  silver  fountains  from  their  caverns  flowing, 

Or  the  deep-voiced  rivers  rolling  by, 

Then  Night  eternal  fallen  from  the  sky  : 

If  only  once  weird  Time  had  rent  asunder 

The  curtain  of  the  Clouds,  and  shown  us  Night 
Climbing  into  the  awful  Infinite, 

Those  stairs  whose  steps  are  worlds  above  and  under, 

Glory  on  glory,  wonder  upon  wonder  ! 

If  Lightnings  lit  the  Earthquake  on  his  way 
But  once,  or  Thunder  spake  unto  the  world ; 
The  realm-wide  banners  of  the  Wind  unfurl'd ; 

Earth-prison'd  Fires  broke  loose  into  the  day ; 

Or  the  great  Seas  awoke — then  slept  for  aye  ! 

Ah  !  sure  the  heart  of  Man  too  strongly  tried 
By  godlike  presences  so  vast  and  fair, 
Withering  in  dread,  or  sick  in  love's  despair, 
Had  wept  for  ever,  and  to  Heaven  cried, 
Or  struck  with  lightnings  of  delight  had  died. 

But  He  though  heir  of  immortality, 

With  mortal  dust  too  feeble  for  the  sight, 

Draws  through  a  veil  God's  overwhelming  light — 

Use  arms  the  soul ;  anon  there  moveth  by 

A  more  majestic  Angel — and  we  die. 

F.  Tennyson 


Second  Series  31 

XXIV 

RESUSCITATION  OF    fANCY 

The  edge  of  thought  was  blunted  by  the  stress 
Of  the  hard  world  ;  my  fancy  had  wax'd  dull, 
All  nature  seem'd  less  nobly  beautiful, — 
Robb'd  of  her  grandeur  and  her  loveliness ; 

Methought  the  Muse  within  my  heart  had  died, 
Till,  late,  awaken'd  at  the  break  of  day, 
Just  as  the  East  took  fire  and  dofFd  its  gray, 
The  rich  preparatives  of  light  I  spied  ; 

But  one  sole  star— none  other  anywhere — 
A  wild-rose  odour  from  the  fields  was  borne : 
The  lark's  mysterious  joy  fill'd  earth  and  air, 
And  from  the  wind's  top  met  the  hunter's  horn ; 
The  aspen  trembled  wildly,  and  the  morn 
Breathed  up  in  rosy  clouds,  divinely  fair  ! 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 

XXV 
SUNSET  WING* 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 

Cleaving  the  western  sky  ; 
Wing'd  too  with  wind  it  is,  and  winnowings 
Of  birds ;  as  if  the  day's  last  hour  in  rings 

Of  strenuous  fliglit  must  die. 

Sun-steep'd  in  fire,  the  homeward  pinions  sway 

Above  the  dovecote -tops  ; 
And  clouds  of  starlings,  ere  they  rest  with  day, 
Sink,  clamorous  like  mill-waters,  at  wild  play, 

By  turns  in  every  copse  : 

Each  tree  heart -deep  the  wrangling  rout  receives,— 

Save  for  the  whirr  within, 

You  could  not  tell  the  starlings  from  the  leaves ; 
Then  one  great  puff  of  wings,  and  the  swarm  heaves 

Away  with  all  its  din. 


32  The  Golden  Treasury 

Even  thus  Hope's  hours,  in  ever-eddying  flight, 

To  many  a  refuge  tend  ; 

With  the  first  light  she  laugh'd,  and  the  last  light 
Glows  round  her  still ;  who  natheless  in  the  night 

At  length  must  make  an  end. 

And  now  the  mustering  rooks  innumerable 

Together  sail  and  soar, 

While  for  the  day's  death,  like  a  tolling  knell, 
Unto  the  heart  they  seem  to  cry,  Farewell, 

No  more,  farewell,  no  more  ! 

Is  Hope  not  plumed,  as  'twere  a  fiery  dart  ? 

And  oh  !  thou  dying  day, 
Even  as  thou  goest  must  she  too  depart, 
And  Sorrow  fold  such  pinions  on  the  heart 

As  will  not  fly  away  ? 

ZX  G.  Rossetti 


XXVI 

THE  STEAM  THRESHING-MACHINE 

WITH  THE  STRAW-CARRIER 

Flush  with  the  pond  the  lurid  furnace  burn'd 
At  eve,  while  smoke  and  vapour  fill'd  the  yard  ; 
The  gloomy  winter  sky  was  dimly  starr'd, 
The  fly-wheel  with  a  mellow  murmur  turn'd  ; 

While,  ever  rising  on  its  mystic  stair 
In  the  dim  light,  from  secret  chambers  borne, 
The  straw  of  harvest,  sever'd  from  the  corn, 
Climb'd,  and  fell  over,  in  the  murky  air. 

I  thought  of  mind  and  matter,  will  and  law, 
And  then  of  him,  who  set  his  stately  seal 
Of  Roman  words  on  all  the  forms  he  saw 
Of  old-world  husbandry  :  /  could  but  feel 
With  what  a  rich  precision  he  would  draw 
The  endless  ladder,  and  the  booming  wheel  ! 
C. 


Second  Series  33 


ON  THE  DEA  TH  OF  A  FA  VO  UR1TE  CANAR  Y 

Poor  Matthias  !     Wouldst  thou  have 
More  than  pity  ?  claim'st  a  stave  ? 
—Friends  more  near  us  than  a  bird 
We  dismiss'd  without  a  word. 
Rover,  with  the  good  brown  head, 
Great  Atossa,  they  are  dead ; 
Dead,  and  neither  prose  nor  rhyme 
Tells  the  praises  of  their  prime. 
Thou  didst  know  them  old  and  gray, 
Know  them  in  their  sad  decay. 
Thou  hast  seen  Atossa  sage 
Sit  for  hours  beside  thy  cage ; 
Thou  wouldst  chirp,  thou  foolish  bird, 
,  Flutter,  chirp — she  never  stirr'd  ! 
What  were  now  these  toys  to  her  ? 
Down  she  sank  amid  her  fur ; 
Eyed  thee  with  a  soul  resign'd — 
And  thou  deemedst  cats  were  kind  ! 
— Cruel,  but  composed  and  bland, 
Dumb,  inscrutable  and  grand, 
So  Tiberius  might  have  sat, 
Had  Tiberius  been  a  cat. 

Birds,  companions  more  unknown. 
Live  beside  us,  but  alone ; 
Finding  not,  do  all  they  can, 
Passage  from  their  souls  to  man. 
Kindness  we  bestow,  and  praise, 
Laud  their  plumage,  greet  their  lays ; 
Still,  beneath  their  feather'd  breast, 
Stirs  a  history  unexpress'd. 
Wishes  there,  and  feelings  strong, 
Incommunicably  throng ; 
What  they  want,  we  cannot  guess, 
Fail  to  track  their  deep  distress — 
Dull  look  on  when  death  is  nigh, 
Note  no  change,  and  let  them  die. 


34  The   Golden    Treasury 

Was  it,  as  the  Grecian  sings, 
Birds  were  born  the  first  of  things, 
Before  the  sun,  before  the  wind, 
Before  the  gods,  before  mankind, 
Airy,  ante-mundane  throng — 
Witness  their  unworldly  song  ! 
Proof  they  give,  too,  primal  powers, 
Of  a  prescience  more  than  ours — 
Teach  us,  while  they  come  and  go, 
When  to  sail,  and  when  to  sow. 
Cuckoo  calling  from  the  hill, 
Swallow  skimming  by  the  mill, 
Swallows  trooping  in  the  sedge, 
Starlings  swirling  from  the  hedge, 
Mark  the  seasons,  map  our  year, 
As  they  show  and  disappear. 
But,  with  all  this  travail  sage 
Brought  from  that  anterior  age, 
Goes  an  unreversed  decree 
Whereby  strange  are  they  and  we, 
Making  want  of  theirs,  and  plan, 
Indiscernible  by  man. 

M.  Arnold 


XXVIII 
ORARA 

A  TRIBUTARY  OF  THE  CLARENCE  RIVER 

The  strong  sob  of  the  chafing  stream, 

That  seaward  fights  its  way 
Down  crags  of  glitter,  dells  of  gleam, 

Is  in  the  hills  to-day. 

But  far  and  faint  a  gray-wing'd  form 

Hangs  where  the  wild  lights  wane—- 
The phantom  of  a  bye-gone  storm, 
A  ghost  of  wind  and  rain. 

The  soft  white  feet  of  afternoon 

Are  on  the  shining  meads ; 
The  breeze  is  as  a  pleasant  tune 

Amongst  the  happy  reeds. 


Second  Series  35 

The  fierce,  disastrous,  flying  fire, 

That  made  the  great  caves  ring, 
And  scarr'd  the  slope,  and  broke  the  spire, 

Is  a  forgotten  thing. 

The  air  is  full  of  mellow  sounds ; 

The  wet  hill-heads  are  bright ; 
And,  down  the  fall  of  fragrant  grounds, 

The  deep  ways  flame  with  light. 

A  rose-red  space  of  stream  I  see, 

Past  banks  of  tender  fern ; 
A  radiant  brook,  unknown  to  me, 

Beyond  its  upper  turn. 

The  singing  silver  life  I  hear, 

Whose  home  is  in  the  green 
Far-folded  woods  of  fountains  clear, 

Where  I  have  never  been.* 

Ah,  brook  above  the  upper  bend, 

I  often  long  to  stand, 
Where  you  in  soft,  cool  shades  descend 

From  the  untrodden  land : — 

But  I  may  linger  long,  and  look, 

Till  night  is  over  all ; 
My  eyes  will  never  see  the  brook, 

Or  strange,  sweet  waterfall. 

The  world  is  round  me  with  its  heat, 

And  toil,  and  cares  that  tire ; 
I  cannot  with  my  feeble  feet 

Climb  after  my  desire. 

H.  C.  Kendall 


XXIX 

SONG  OF  PALMS 

Mighty,  luminous,  and  calm 

Is  the  country  of  the  palm, 

Crown'd  with  sunset  and  sunrise, 
Under  blue  unbroken  skies, 


36  The   Golden    Treasury 

Waving  from  green  zone  to  zone, 
Over  wonders  of  its  own ; 
Trackless,  untraversed,  unknown, 

Changeless  through  the  centuries. 

Who  can  say  what  thing  it  bears  ? 

Blazing  bird  and  blooming  flower, 
Dwelling  there  for  years  and  years, 

Hold  the  enchanted  secret  theirs: 
Life  and  death  and  dream  have  made 
Mysteries  in  many  a  shade, 
Hollow  haunt  and  hidden  bower 
Closed  alike  to  sun  and  shower. 

Who  is  ruler  of  each  race 
Living  in  each  boundless  place, 

Growing,  flowering,  and  flying, 
Glowing,  revelling,  and  dying? 
Wave-like,  palm  by  palm  is  stirr'd, 
And  the  bird  sings  to  the  bird, 
And  the  day  sings  one  rich  word, 

And  the  great  night  comes  replying 

Long  red  reaches  of  the  cane, 
Yellow  winding  water-lane, 

Verdant  isle  and  amber  river, 
Lisp  and  murmur  back  again, 

And  ripe  under-worlds  deliver 
Rapturous  souls  of  perfume,  hurl'd 

Up  to  where  green  oceans  quiver 
In  the  wide  leaves'  restless  world. 


Many  thousand  years  have  been, 

And  the  sun  alone  hath  seen, 

Like  a  high  and  radiant  ocean, 
All  the  fair  palm  world  in  motion  5 

But  the  crimson  bird  hath  fed 

With  its  mate  of  equal  red, 

And  the  flower  in  soft  explosion 

With  the  flower  hath  been  wed. 


Second  Series  37 

And  its  long  luxuriant  thought 
Lofty  palm  to  palm  hath  taught, 

While  a  single  vast  liana 
All  one  brotherhood  hath  wrought, 

Crossing  forest  and  savannah, 
Binding  fern  and  coco-tree, 

Fig-tree,  buttress-tree,  banana, 
F  warf  cane  a  nd  tall  maritf. 

A.  O1  Shaughnessy 


XXX 

WINTER 

I,  singularly  moved 

To  love  the  lovely  that  are  not  beloved, 
Of  all  the  Seasons,  most 
Love  Winter,  and  to  trace 
The  sense  of  the  Trophonian  pallor  on  her  face. 
It  is  not  death,  but  plenitude  of  peace  ; 
And  the  dim  cloud  that  does  the  world  enfold 
Hath  less  the  characters  of  dark  and  cold 
Than  warmth  and  light  asleep, 
And  correspondent  breathing  seems  to  keep 
With  the  infant  harvest,  breathing  soft  below 
Its  eider  coverlet  of  snow. 
Nor  is  in  field  or  garden  anything 
But,  duly  look'd  into,  contains  serene 
The  substance  of  things  hoped  for,  in  the  Spring, 
And  evidence  of  Summer  not  yet  seen. 
On  every  chance-mild  day 
That  visits  the  moist  shaw, 
The  honeysuckle,  'sdaining  to  be  crost 
In  urgence  of  sweet  life  by  sleet  or  frost, 
'Voids  the  time's  law 
With  still  increase 

Of  leaflet  new,  and  little,  wandering  spray  ; 
Often,  in  sheltering  brakes, 
As  one  from  rest  disturb'd  in  the  first  hour, 
Primrose  or  violet  bewilder'd  wakes, 
And  deems  'tis  time  to  flowei  \ 


38  The  Golden  Treasury 

Though  not  a  whisper  of  her  voice  he  hear,     * 

The  buried  bulb  does  know 

The  signals  of  the  year, 

And  hails  far  Summer  with  his  lifted  spear. 

C.   Patmors, 


XXXI 

LYNMOUTH 

Around  my  love  and  me  the  brooding  hills, 
Full  of  delicious  murmurs,  rise  on  high, 

Closing  upon  this  spot  the  summer  fills, 

And  over  which  there  rules  the  summer  sky. 

Behind  us  on  the  shore  down  there  the  sea 
Roars  roughly,  like  a  fierce  pursuing  hound  ; 

But  all  this  hour  is  calm  for  her  and  me  ; 
And  now  another  hill  shuts  out  the  sound. 

And  now  we  breathe  the  odours  of  the  glen, 
And  round  about  us  are  enchanted  things  ; 

The  bird  that  hath  blithe  speech  unknown  to  men, 
The  river  keen,  that  hath  a  voice  and  sings. 

The  tree  that  dwells  with  one  ecstatic  thought, 
Wider  and  fairer  growing  year  by  year, 

The  flower  that  flowereth  and  knoweth  nought, 
The  bee  that  scents  the  flower  and'draweth  near. 

Our  path  is  here,  the  rocky  winding  ledge 

That  sheer  o'erhangs  the  rapid  shouting  stream ; 

Now  dips  down  smoothly  to  the  quiet  edge, 
Where  restful  waters  lie  as  in  a  dream. 

The  green  exuberant  branches  overhead 
Sport  with  the  golden  magic  of  the  sun, 

Here  quite  shut  out,  here  like  rare 'jewels  shed 
To  fright  the  glittering  lizards  as  they  run. 


Second  Series  39 

And  wonderful  are  all  those  mossy  floors 

Spread  out  beneath  us  in  some  pathless  place, 

Where  the  sun  only  reaches  and  outpours 

His  smile,  where  never  a  foot  hath  left  a  trace. 

And  there  are  perfect  nooks  that  have  been  made 
By  the  long  growing  tree,  through  some  chance  turn 

Its  trunk  took  ;  since  transform'd  with  scent  and  shade 
And  fill'd  with  all  the  glory  of  the  fern. 

And  tender-tinted  wood  flowers  are  seen, 

Clear  starry  blooms  and  bells  of  pensive  blue, 

That  lead  their  delicate  lives  there  in  the  green — 
What  were  the  world  if  it  should  lose  their  hue  ? 

Even  o'er  the  rough  out -jutting  stone  that  blocks 
The  narrow  way  some  cunning  hand  hath  strewn 

The  moss  in  rich  adornment,  and  the  rocks 

Down  there  seem  written  thick  with  many  a  rune. 

And  here,  upon  that  stone,  we  rest  awhile, 

For  we  can  see  the  lovely  river's  fall, 
And  wild  and  sweet  the  place  is  to  beguile 

My  love,  and  keep  her  till  I  tell  her  all. 

A.   O*  Shaughness} 


XXXII 

THE  SONG   OF  EMPEDOCLES 

And  you,  ye  stars, 

Who  slowly  begin  to  marshal, 

As  of  old,  in  the  fields  of  heaven, 

Your  distant,  melancholy  lines  ! 

Have  you,  too,  survived  yourselves  ? 

Are  you,  too,  what  I  fear  to  become  ? 

You,  too,  once  lived  ; 

You  too  moved  joyfully 

Among  august  companions, 

In  an  older  world,  peopled  by  Gods, 

In  a  mightier  order, 

The  radiant,  rejoicing,  intelligent  Sons  of  Heaven. 


4O  The  Golden   Treasury 

But  now,  ye  kindle 
Your  lonely,  cold-shining  lights, 
Unwilling  lingerers 
In  the  heavenly  wilderness, 
For  a  younger,  ignoble  world ; 
And  renew,  by  necessity, 
Night  after  night  your  courses, 
In  echoing,  unnear'd  silence, 
Above  a  race  you  know  not — 
Uncaring  and  undelighted, 
Without  friend  and  without  home ; 
Weary  like  us,  though  not 
Weary  with  our  weariness. 

M.  Arnold 


XXXIII 

THE  SCHOLAR-GIPSY 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from  the  hill ; 
Go,  shepherd,  and  untie  the  wattled  cotes  ! 
No  longer  leave  thy  wistful  flock  unfed, 
Nor  let  thy  bawling  fellows  rack  their  throats, 
Nor  the  cropp'd  herbage  shoot  another  head. 

But  when  the  fields  are  still, 
And  the  tired  men  and  dogs  all  gone  to  rest, 
And  only  the  white  sheep  are  sometimes  seen 
Cross  and  recross   the   strips  of  moon-blanch'd 

green, 
Come,  shepherd,  and  again  begin  the  quest ! 

Here,  where  the  reaper  was  at  work  of  late — 
In  this  high  field's  dark  corner,  where  he  leaves 

His  coat,  his  basket,  and  his  earthen  cruse, 
And  in  the  sun  all  morning  binds  the  sheaves, 
Then  here,   at  noon,  comes  back  his  stores  to 

use — 

Here  will  I  sit  and  wait, 
While  to  my  ear  from  uplands  far  away 
The  bleating  of  the  folded  flocks  is  borne, 
With  distant  cries  of  reapers  in  the  corn- 
All  the  live  murmur  of  a  summer's  day. 


Second  Series  41 

Screen'd  is  this  nook  o'er  the  high,  half-reap'd  field, 
And  here  till  sun-down,  shepherd  !  will  I  be. 

Through  the  thick  corn  the  scarlet  poppies  peep, 
And  round  green  roots  and  yellowing  stalks  I  see 

Pale  pink  convolvulus  in  tendrils  creep ; 

And  air-swept  lindens  yield 
Their  scent,  and  rustle  down  their  perfumed  showers 

Of  bloom  on  the  bent  grass  where  I  am  laid, 

And  bower  me  from  the  August  sun  with  shade ; 
And  the  eye  travels  down  to  Oxford's  towers. 

And  near  me  on  the  grass  lies  Glanvil's  book — 
Come,  let  me  read  the  oft-read  tale  again  ! 

The  story  of  the  Oxford  scholar  poor, 
Of  pregnant  parts  and  quick  inventive  brain, 

Who,  tired  of  knocking  at  preferment's  door, 

One  summer-morn  forsook 
His  friends,  and  went  to  learn  the  gipsy-lore, 

And  roam'd  the  world  with  that  wild  brotherhood, 

And  came,  as  most  men  deem'd,  to  little  good, 
But  came  to  Oxford  and  his  friends  no  more. 

But  once,  years  after,  in  the  country-lanes, 
Two  scholars,  whom  at  college  erst  he  knew, 

Met  him,  and  of  his  way  of  life  enquired ; 
Whereat  he  answer 'd,  that  the  gipsy-crew, 

His  mates,  had  arts  to  rule  as  they  desired 

The  workings  of  men's  brains, 
And  they  can  bind  them  to  what  thoughts  they  will. 

'  And  I,'  he  said,  '  the  secret  of  their  art; 

When  fully  learn'd,  will  to  the  world  impart ; 
But  it  needs  heaven-sent  moments  for  this  skill. ' 

This  said,  he  left  them,  and  return'd  no  more. — 
But  rumours  hung  about  the  country-side, 

That  the  lost  Scholar  long  was  seen  to  stray, 
Seen  by  rare  glimpses,  pensive  and  tongue-tied, 

In  hat  of  antique  shape,  and  cloak  of  gray, 

The  same  the  gipsies  wore. 
Shepherds  had  met  him  on  the  Hurst  in  spring ; 

At  some  lone  alehouse  in  the  Berkshire  moors, 

On  the  warm  ingle-bench,  the  smock-frock'd  boors 
Had  found  him  seated  at  their  entering, 


42  The  Golden   Treasury 

But,  'mid  their  drink  and  clatter,  he  would  fly. 
And  I  myself  seem  half  to  know  thy  looks, 

And  put  the  shepherds,  wanderer  !  on  thy  trace ; 
And  boys  who  in  lone  wheatfields  scare  the  rooks 

I  ask  if  thou  hast  pass'd  their  quiet  place  ; 

Or  in  my  boat  I  lie 
Moor'd  to  the  cool  bank  in  the  summer-heats, 

'Mid  wide  grass  meadows  which  the  sunshine  fills, 

And  watch  the  warm,  green-muffled  Cumner  hills, 
And  wonder  if  thou  haunt'st  their  shy  retreats. 

For  most,  I  know,  thou  lov'st  retired  ground  ! 
Tliee  at  the  ferry  Oxford  riders  blithe, 

Returning  home  on  summer-nights,  have  met 
Crossing  the  stripling  Thames  at  Bab-lock-hithe, 
Trailing  in  the  cool  stream  thy  fingers  wet, 

As  the  punt's  rope  chops  round  ; 
And  leaning  backward  in  a  pensive  dream, 
And  fostering  in  thy  lap  a  heap  of  flowers 
Pluck'd    in    shy   fields    and    distant    Wychwood 

bowers, 
And  thine  eyes  resting  on  the  moonlit  stream. 

And  then  they  land,  and  thou  art  seen  no  more  ! — 
Maidens,  who  from  the  distant  hamlets  come 
To  dance  around  the  Fyfield  elm  in  May, 
Oft  through  the  darkening  fields  have  seen  thee  roam, 
Or  cross  a  stile  into  the  public  way. 

Oft  thou  hast  given  them  store 
Of  flowers — the  frail-leaf'd,  white  anemony, 

Dark  bluebells  drench'd  with  dews  of  summer 

eves, 

And  purple  orchises  with  spotted  leaves — 
But  none  hath  words  she  can  report  of  thee. 

And,  above  Godstow  Bridge,  when  hay- time's  here 
In  June,  and  manv  a  scythe  in  sunshine  flames, 

Men  who  through  those  wide  fields  of  breezy  grass 
Where  black-wing'd  swallows  haunt  the  glittering 

Thames, 

To  bathe  in  the  abandon 'd  lasher  pass, 
Have  often  pass'd  thee  near 


Second  Series  43 

Sitting  upon  the  river  bank  o'ergrown ; 

Mark'd  thine  outlandish  garb,  thy  figure  spare, 
Thy  dark  vague  eyes,  and  soft  abstracted  air — 

But,  when  they  came  from  bathing,  thou  wast  gone  \ 

At  some  lone  homestead  in  the  Cumner  hills, 
Where  at  her  open  door  the  housewife  darns, 
Thou  hast  been  seen,  or  hanging  on  a  gate 
To  watch  the  threshers  in  the  mossy  barns. 

Children,  who  early  range  these  slopes  and  late 

For  cresses  from  the  rills, 
Have  known  thee  eying,  all  an  April -day, 
The  springing  pastures  and  the  feeding  kine ; 
And  mark'd  thee,  when  the  stars  come  out  and 

shine, 
Through  the  long  dewy  grass  move  slow  away. 

In  autumn,  on  the  skirts  of  Bagley  Wood — 
Where  most  the  gipsies  by  the  turf-edged  way 

Pitch  their  smoked  tents,  and  every  bush  you  see 
With  scarlet  patches  tagg'd  and  shreds  of  gray, 

Above  the  forest-ground  called  Thessaly — 

The  blackbird,  picking  food, 
Sees  thee,  nor  stops  his  meal,  nor  fears  at  all ; 

So  often  has  he  known  thee  past  him  stray, 

Rapt,  twirling  in  thy  hand  a  wither'd  spray, 
And  waiting  for  the  spark  from  heaven  to  fall. 

And  once,  in  winter,  on  the  causeway  chill 
Where  home  through  flooded  fields  foot-travellers  go, 

Have  I  not  pass'd  thee  on  the  wooden  bridge, 
Wrapt  in  thy  cloak  and  battling  with  the  snow, 
Thy  face  tow'rd  Hinksey  and  its  wintry  ridge  ? 

And  thou  hast  climb'd  the  hill, 
And  gain'd  the  white  brow  of  the  Cumner  range ; 
Turn'd  once  to  watch,  while  thick  the  snowflakes 

fall, 

The  line  of  festal  light  in  Christ-Church  hall- 
Then  sought  thy  straw  in  some  sequester'd  grange. 

But  what — I  dream  !     Two  hundred  years  are  flown 
Since  first  thy  story  ran  through  Oxford  halls, 


44  The  Golden   Treasury 

And  the  grave  Glanvil  did  the  tale  inscribe 
That  thou  wert  wander'd  from  the  studious  walls 

To  learn  strange  arts,  and  join  a  gipsy-tribe ; 

And  thou  from  earth  art  gone 
Long  since,  and  in  some  quiet  churchyard  laid — 

Some  country-nook,  where  o'er  thy  unknown  grave 

Tall  grasses  and  white  flowering  nettles  wave, 
Under  a  dark,  red-fruited  yew-tree's  shade. 

— No,  no,  thou  hast  not  felt  the  lapse  of  hours  ! 
For  what  wears  out  the  life  of  mortal  men  ? 

'Tis  that  from  change  to  change  their  being  rolls ; 
}Tis  that  repeated  shocks,  again,  again, 

Exhaust  the  energy  of  strongest  souls 

And  numb  the  elastic  powers. 
Till  having  used  our  nerves  with  bliss  and  teen, 

And  tired  upon  a  thousand  schemes  our  wit, 

To  the  just-pausing  Genius  we  remit 
Our  worn-out  life,  and  are — what  we  have  been. 

Thou  hast  not  lived,  why  should'st  thou  perish,  so  ? 
Thou  hadst  one  aim,  one  business,  one  desire; 

Else  wert  thou  long  since  number'd  with  the  dead ! 
Else  hadst  thou  spent,  like  other  men,  thy  fire ! 

The  generations  of  thy  peers  are  fled, 

And  we  ourselves  shall  go; 
But  thou  possessest  an  immortal  lot, 

And  we  imagine  thee  exempt  from  age 

And  living  as  thou  liv'st  on  Glanvil's  page, 
Because  thou  hadst — what  we,  alas  !  have  not. 

For  early  didst  thou  leave  the  world,  with  powers 
Fresh,  undiverted  to  the  world  without, 

Firm  to  their  mark,  not  spent  on  other  things ; 
Free  from  the  sick  fatigue,  the  languid  doubt, 
Which  much  to  have  tried,  in  much  been  baffled, 

brings. 

O  life  unlike  to  ours  ! 
Who  fluctuate  idly  without  term  or  scope, 

Of  whom  each  strives,  nor  knows  for  what  he 

strives, 

And  each  half  lives  a  hundred  different  lives ; 
Who  wait  like  thee,  but  not,  like  thee,  in  hope. 


Second  Series  45 

Thou  waitest  for  the  spark  from  heaven  !  and  we, 
Light  half-believers  of  our  casual  creeds, 

Who  never  deeply  felt,  nor  clearly  will'd, 
Whose  insight  never  has  borne  fruit  in  deeds, 

Whose  vague  resolves  never  have  been  fulfill'd  ; 

For  whom  each  year  we  see 
Breeds  new  beginnings,  disappointments  new  ; 

Who  hesitate  and  falter  life  away, 

And  lose  to-morrow  the  ground  won  to-day — 
Ah  !  do  not  we,  wanderer  !  await  it  too  ? 

Yes,  we  await  it ! — but  it  still  delays, 
And  then  we  suffer  !  and  amongst  us  one, 
Who  most  has  suffer'd,  takes  dejectedly 
His  seat  upon  the  intellectual  throne  ; 
And  all  his  store  of  sad  experience  he 

Lays  bare  of  wretched  days  ; 
Tells  us  his  misery's  birth  and  growth  and  signs, 
And  how  the  dying  spark  of  hope  was  fed, 
And  how  the  breast  was  soothed,  and  how  ;he 

head, 
And  all  his  hourly  varied  anodynes. 

This  for  our  wisest !  and  we  others  pine, 

And  wish  the  long  unhappy  dream  would  end, 

And  waive  all  claim  to  bliss,  and  try  to  bear ; 
With  close-lipp'd  patience  for  our  only  friend, 
Sad  patience,  too  near  neighbour  to  despair — 

But  none  has  hope  like  thine  ! 
Thou   through   the  fields  and  through  the  woods 

dost  stray, 

Roaming  the  country-side,  a  truant  boy, 
Nursing  thy  project  in  unclouded  joy, 
And  every  doubt  long  blown  by  time  away. 

O  born  in  days  when  wits  were  fresh  and  clear, 
And  life  ran  gaily  as  the  sparkling  Thames  ; 
Before  this  strange  disease  of  modern  life, 
With  its  sick  hurry,  its  divided  aims, 

Its  heads  o'ertax'd,  its  palsied  hearts,  was  rife — - 
Fly  hence,  our  contact  fear  ! 


jfi  The    Golden    Treasury 

Still  fly,  plunge  deeper  in  the  bowering  wood  ! 
Averse,  as  Dido  did  with  gesture  stern 
From  her  false  friend's  approach  in  Hades  turn$ 

iVave  us  away,  and  keep  thy  solitude  ! 

Still  nursing  the  unconquerable  hope, 
Still  clutching  the  inviolable  shade, 

With  a  free,  onward  impulse  brushing  through, 
By  night,  the  silver'd  branches  of  the  glade — 

Far  on  the  forest-skirts,  where  none  pursue 

On  some  mild  pastoral  slope 
Emerge,  and  resting  on  the  moonlit  pales 

Freshen  thy  flowers  as  in  former  years 

With  dew,  or  listen  with  enchanted  ears, 
From  the  dark  dingles,  to  the  nightingales ! 

But  fly  our  paths,  our  feverish  contact  fly  ! 
For  strong  the  infection  of  our  mental  strife, 

Which,  though  it  gives  no  bliss,  yet  spoils  for  rest ; 
And  we  should  win  thee  from  thy  own  fair  life, 

Like  us  distracted,  and  like  us  unblest. 

Soon,  soon  thy  cheer  would  die, 
Thy  hopes  grow  timorous,  and  unfix'd  thy  powers, 

And  thy  clear  aims  be  cross  and  shifting  made  ; 

And  then  thy  glad  perennial  youth  would  fade, 
Fade,  and  grow  old  at  last,  and  die  like  ours. 

Then  fly  our  greetings,  fly  our  speech  and  smiles  ! 
— As  some  grave  Tyrian  trader,  from  the  sea, 

Descried  at  sunrise  an  emerging  prow 
Lifting  the  cool-hair'd  creepers  stealthily, 
The  fringes  of  a  southward-facing  brow 

Among  the  Aegaean  isles  ; 
And  saw  the  merry  Grecian  coaster  come, 

Freighted  with  amber  grapes,  and  Chian  wine, 
Green,    bursting    figs,    and    tunnies    steep'd    in 

brine — 
And  knew  the  intruders  on  his  ancient  home, 

The  young  light-hearted  masters  of  the  waves — 
And  snatch'd  his  rudder,  and  shook  out  more  sail ; 

And  day  and  night  held  on  indignantly 
O'er  the  blue  Midland  waters  with  the  gale, 


Second  Series  47 

Betwixt  the  Syrtes  and  soft  Sicily, 

To  where  the  Atlantic  raves 
Outside  the  western  straits  ;  and  unbent  sails 
There,  where  down  cloudy  cliffs,  through  sheets 

of  foam, 

Shy  traffickers,  the  dark  Iberians  come  ; 
And  on  the  beach  undid  his  corded  bales. 

M.  Arnold 


XXXIV 

0  let  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 

Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 

1  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Not  close  and  darken  above  me 

Before  I  am  quite  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me ; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  h£.ve  had  my  day. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


xxxv 

SOULS  BEAUTY 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 
The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, — which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 


48  The   Golden  Treasury 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, — long  known  to 

thee 

By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, — the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably  > 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 

D.   G.   Rossetti 


XXXVI 
AMATURUS 

Somewhere  beneath  the  sun, 

These  quivering  heart-strings  prove  it, 
Somewhere  there  must  be  one 

Made  for  this  soul  to  move  it ; 
Some  one  that  hides  her  sweetness 

From  neighbours  whom  she  slights, 
Nor  can  attain  completeness, 

Nor  give  her  heart  its  rights  ; 
Some  one  whom  I  could  court 

With  no  great  change  of  manner, 
Still  holding  reason's  fort, 

Though  waving  fancy's  banner ; 
A  lady,  not  so  queenly 

As  to  disdain  my  hand, 
Yet  born  to  smile  serenely 

Like  those  that  rule  the  land ; 
Noble,  but  not  too  proud  ; 

With  soft  hair  simply  folded, 
And  bright  face  crescent-brow'd, 

And  throat  by  Muses  moulded  ; 
And  eyelids  lightly  falling 

On  little  glistening  seas, 
Deep-calm,  when  gales  are  brawling, 

Though  stirr'd  by  every  breeze  ; 
Swift  vbice,  like  flight  of  dove 

Through  minster-arches  floating, 
With  sudden  turns,  when  love 

Gets  overnear  to  doting  ; 


Second  Series  49 

Keen  lips,  that  shape  soft  sayings 

Like  crystals  of  the  snow, 
With  pretty  half-betrayings 

Of  things  one  may  not  know  ; 
Fair  hand,  whose  touches  thrill, 

Like  golden  rod  of  wonder, 
Which  Hermes  wields  at  will 

Spirit  and  flesh  to  sunder  ; 
Light  foot,  to  press  the  stirrup 

In  fearlessness  and  glee, 
Or  dance,  till  finches  chirrup, 

And  stars  sink  to  the  sea. 

Forth,  Love,  and  find  this  maid, 

Wherever  she  be  hidden  : 
Speak,  Love,  be  not  afraid, 

But  plead  as  thou  art  bidden ; 
And  say,  that  he  who  taught  thee 

His  yearning  want  and  pain, 
Too  dearly,  dearly,  bought  thee 

To  part  with  thee  in  vain. 

W.  Johnson-Cory 


XXXVII 

ZULEIKA 

Zuleika  is  fled  away, 

Though  your  bolts  and  your  bars  were  strong  ; 
A  minstrel  came  to  the  gate  to-day 

And  stole  her  away  with  a  song. 
His  song  was  subtle  and  sweet, 
It  made  her  young  heart  beat, 

It  gave  a  thrill  to  her  faint  heart's  will, 
And  wings  to  her  weary  feet. 

Zuleika  was  not  for  ye, 

Though  your  laws  and  your  threats  were  hard  \ 
The  minstrel  came  from  beyond  the  sea, 

And  took  her  in  spite  of  your  guard : 


5C  The  Golden  Treasury 

His  ladder  of  song  was  slight, 

But  it  reach'd  to  her  window  height ; 

Each  verse  so  frail  was  the  silken  rail 
From  which  her  soul  took  flight. 

The  minstrel  was  fair  and  young  ; 

His  heart  was  of  love  and  fire  ; 
His  song  was  such  as  you  ne'er  have  sung, 

And  only  love  could  inspire  : 
He  sang  of  the  singing  trees, 
And  the  passionate  sighing  seas, 

And  the  lovely  land  of  his  minstrel  band ; 
And  with  many  a  song  like  these 

He  drew  her  forth  to  the  distant  wood, 

Where  bird  and  flower  were  gay, 
And  in  silent  joy  each  green  tree  stood ; 

And  with  singing  along  the  way, 
He  drew  her  to  where  each  bird 
Repeated  his  magic  word, 

And  there  seem'd  a  spell  she  could  not  tell 
In  every  sound  she  heard. 

And  singing  and  singing  still, 

He  lured  her  away  so  far, 
Past  so  many  a  wood  and  valley  and  hill, 

That  now,  would  you  know  where  they  are  ? 
In  a  bark  on  a  silver  stream, 
As  fair  as  you  see  in  a  dream  ; 

Lo  !  the  bark  glides  along  to  the  minstrel's  song, 
While  the  smooth  waves  ripple  and  gleam. 

And  soon  they  will  reach  the  shore 

Of  that  land  whereof  he  sings, 
And  love  and  song  will  be  evermore 

The  precious,  the  only  things  ; 
They  will  live  and  have  long  deligh 
They  two  in  each  other's  sight, 

In  the  violet  vale  of  the  nightingale, 
And  the  .flower  that  blooms  by  night. 

A.  O'Shaughnessy 


Second  Series  51 


AT  THE   CHURCH  GATE 

Although  I  enter  not, 
Yet  round  about  the  spot 

Ofttimes  I  hover  ; 
And  near  the  sacred  gate, 
With  longing  eyes  I  wait, 

Expectant  of  her. 

The  Minster  bell  tolls  out 
Above  the  city's  rout 

And  noise  and  humming  ; 
They've  hush'd  the  Minster  bell ; 
The  organ  'gins  to  swell : 

She's  coming  !  she's  coming  ! 

My  Lady  comes  at  last, 
Timid  and  stepping  fast 

And  hastening  hither, 
With  modest  eyes  down-cast : 
She  comes — she's  here — she's  pass'd 

May  heaven  go  with  her  ! 

Kneel  undisturb'd,  fair  Saint  ! 
Pour  out  your  praise  or  plaint 

Meekly  and  duly  ! 
I  will  not  enter  there 
To  sully  your  pure  prayer 

With  thoughts  unruly. 

But  suffer  me  to  pace 
Round  the  forbidden  place, 

Lingering  a  minute  ! 
Like  outcast  spirits  who  wait 
And  see  through  heaven's  gate 

Angels  within  it. 

W.  M.  Thackeray 


5  2  The  Golden  Treasury 

XXXIX 

THE  BIRTH-BOND 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 

Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-bed, 
How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond,  though  fed 

And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and  knee  ? — 

How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall  be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill ;  but  each 
Shall  for  the  other  have,  in  silence  speech, 

And  in  a  word  complete  community  ? 

Even  so,  when  first  I  saw  you,  seem'd  it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  was  yet 

One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 

O  born  with  me  somewhere  that  men  forget, 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound  unmet, 

Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well  enough  ! 

D.  G.  Rossetti 


XL 

LISTENING 

She  listen'd  like  a  cushat  dove 

That  listens  to  its  mate  alone  : 

She  listen'd  like  a  cushat  dove 

That  loves  but  only  one. 

Not  fair  as  men  would  reckon  fair, 
Nor  noble  as  they  count  the  line : 
Only  as  graceful  as  a  bough, 

And  tendrils  of  the  vine  : 
Only  as  noble  as  sweet  Eve 

Your  ancestress  and  mine. 

And  downcast  were  her  dovelike  eyes 
And  downcast  was  her  tender  cheek  ; 
Her  pulses  flutter'd  like  a  dove 
To  hear  him  speak. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


Second  Series  53 

x¥ 
SOMEWHERE   OR   OTHER 

Somewhere  or  other  there  must  surely  be 
The  face  not  seen,  the  voice  not  heard. 
The  heart  that  not  yet — never  yet — ah  me  ! 
Made  answer  to  my  word. 

Somewhere  or  other,  may  be  near  or  far  ; 

Past  land  and  sea,  clean  out  of  sight ; 
Beyond  the  wandering  moon,  beyond  the  star 
That  tracks  her  night  by  night. 

Somewhere  or  other,  may  be  far  or  near  ; 

With  just  a  wall,  a  hedge,  between  ; 
With  just  the  last  leaves  of  the  dying  year 
Fallen  on  a  turf  grown  green. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


XLII 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea  ; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape, 

With  fold  to  fold,. of  mountain  or  of  cape  ; 
But  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die  ' 

Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :  thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd  : 
I  strove  against  the  stream  and  all  in  vain : 
Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


5<j.  The  Golden  Treasury 

XLIII 
ZUMMER  AN*    WINTER 

When  I  led  by  zummer  streams 

The  pride  o'  Lea,  as  neighbours  thought  her, 
While  the  zun,  wi'  evenen  beams, 
Did  cast  our  sheades  athirt  the  water  ; 

Winds  a-blowen, 

Streams  a-flowen, 

Skies  a-glowen  ; 
Tokens  ov  my  jay  zoo  fleeten, 
Heighten'd  it,  that  happy  meeten. 

Then,  when  maid  an'  man  took  pleaces, 

Gay  in  winter's  Chris'mas  dances, 
Show  en  in  their  merry  feaces 

Kindly  smiles  an'  glisnen  glances  ; 
Stars  a-winken, 
Day  a-shrinken, 
Sheades  a-zinken  ; 
Brought  anew  the  happy  meeten, 
That  did  meake  the  night  too  fleeten. 

W,  Barnes 


XLIV 
LULLABY 

The  rook's  nest  do  rock  on  the  tree-top 

Where  vew  foes  can  stand  ; 

The  martin's  is  high,  an'  is  deep 

In  the  steep  cliff  o'  zand. 

But  thou,  love,  a-sleepen  where  vootsteps 

Mid  come  to  thy  bed, 

Hast  father  an'  mother  to  watch  thee 

An*  shelter  thy  head. 

Lullaby,  Lilybrow.     Lie  asleep ; 

Blest  be  thy  rest. 


Second  Series  55 

An'  zome  birds  do  keep  under  ruffen 

Their  young  vrom  the  storm, 

An'  zome  wi'  nest-hoodens  o'  moss 

An'  o'  wool,  do  lie  warm. 

An'  we  wull  look  well  to  the  house  ruf 

That  o'er  thee  mid  leak, 

An'  the  blast  that  mid  beat  on  thy  winder 

Shall  not  smite  thy  cheak. 

Lullaby,  Lilybrow.     Lie  asleep  ; 

Blest  be  thy  rest. 

W.  Barnes 


XLV 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought 

Except  for  love's  sake  only.     Do  not  say 

*  I  love  her  for  her  smile  .  .   .  her  look  .  .  her  way 

Of  speaking  gently,  ...  for  a  trick  of  thought 

That  falls  in  well  with  mine,  and  certes  brought 

A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a  day  ' — 

For  these  things  in  themselves,  Beloved,  may 

Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee, — and  love  so  wrought, 

May  be  unwrought  so.     Neither  love  me  for 

Thine  own  dear  pity's  wiping  my  cheeks  dry, 

Since  one  might  well  forget  to  weep  who  bore 

Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love  thereby. 

But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  evermore 

Thou  may'st  love  on  through  love's  eternity. 

E.  B.  Browning 


XLVI 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange 
And  be  all  to  me  ?     Shall  I  never  miss 
Home-talk  and  blessing,  and  the  common  kiss 
That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count  it  strange, 
When  I  look  up,  to  drop  on  a  new  range 
Of  walls  and  floors  .   .  another  home  than  this  ? 
Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me  which  is 
Fill'd  by  dead  eyes,  top  tender  to  know  change  ? 


56  The   Golden    Treasury 

That's  hardest  !     If  to  conquer  love,  has  tried, 
To  conquer  grief  tries  more  ...  as  all  things  prove . 
For  grief  indeed  is  love,  and  grief  beside. 
Alas,  I  have  grieved  so  I  am  hard  to  love- 
Yet  love  me — wilt  thou?     Open  thine  heart  wide, 
\nd  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy  dove. 

E.  B.  Browning 


XLVII 

WILLOWWOOD 

I  sat  w;.th  Love  upon  a  woodside  well, 
Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he  ; 
Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  look'd  at  me, 

But  touch'd  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 

The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell : 
Only  our  mirror'd  eyes  met  silently 
In  the  low  wave  ;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 

The  passionate  voice  I  knew  ;  and  my  tears  fell. 

And  at  their  fall,  rjis  eyes  beneath  grew  hers  ; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 

He  swept  the  spring  that  water'd  my  heart's 

drouth. 

Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair, 
\nd  as  I  stoop'd,  her  own  lips  rising  there 

Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth 
D.  G.  Rossetti. 


XLVIll 

JEANE 

We  now  mid  hope  vor  better  cheer, 
My  smilen  wife  o'  twice  vive  year. 
Let  others  frown,  if  thou  bist  near 

Wi'  hope  upon  thy  brow,  Jeane  ; 
Vor  I  vu'st  lov'd  thee  when  thy  light 
Young  sheape  vu'st  grew  to  woman's  height  : 

An  I  do  love  thee  now,  Jeane. 


Second  Series  57 

An'  we've  a-trod  the  sheenen  bleade 
Ov  eegrass  in  the  zummer  sheade, 
An'  when  the  leaves  begun  to  feade 

Wi'  zummer  in  the  weane,  Jeane ; 
An'  we've  a-wander'd  drough  the  groun' 
O'  swayen  wheat  a-turnen  brown, 
An'  we've  a-stroll'd  together  roun' 

The  brook  an'  drough  the  leane,  Jeane. 

An'  nwone  but  I  can  ever  tell 
Ov  all  thy  tears  that  have  a-vell 
When  trials  meade  thy  bosom  zwell, 

An'  nwone  but  thou  o'  mine,  Jeane ; 
An'  now  my  heart,  that  heaved  wi'  pride 
Back  then  to  have  thee  at  my  zide, 
Do  love  thee  mwore  as  years  do  slide, 

An'  leave  them  times  behine,  Jeane. 

W.  Barnes 


XLIX 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.     Nevermore 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before, 
Without  the  sense  of  that  which  I  forbore,  .  . 
Thy  touch  upon  the  palm.     The  widest  land 
Doom  takes  to  part  us,  leaves  thy  heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What  I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as  the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes.     And  when  I  sue 
God  for  myself,  He  hears  that  name  of  thine, 
And  sees  within  my  eyes,  the  tears  of  two. 

E.  B.  Browning 


58  The  Golden  Treasury 


I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung 

Of  the  sweet  years,  the  dear  and  wish'd-for  years, 

Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  appears 

To  bear  a  gift  for  mortals,  old  or  young  : 

And,  as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique  tongue, 

I  saw,  in  gradual  vision  through  n  y  tears, 

The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy  years,  .  , 

Those  of  my  own  life,  who  by  turns  had  flung 

A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I  was  'ware, 

So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  Shape  did  move 

Behind  me,  and  drew  me  backward  by  the  hair  ; 

And  a  voice  said  in  mastery  while  I  strove,  .  . 

*  Guess  now  who  holds  thee  ? '     '  Death  ! '     I  said 

But,  there, 

The  silver  answer  rang — '  Not  Death,  but  Love.' 
.  E.  B.  Browning 


LI 

KEEPING  A  HEART 

If  one  should  give  me  a  heart  to  keep, 

With  love  for  the  golden  key, 
The  giver  might  live  at  ease  or  sleep ; 
It  should  ne'er  know  pain,  be  weary,  or  weep, 

The  heart  watch'd  over  by  me. 

I  would  keep  that  heart  as  a  temple  fair, 

No  heathen  should  look  therein  ; 
Its  chaste  marmoreal  beauty  rare 
I  only  should  know,  and  to  enter  there 
I  must  hold  myself  from  sin. 

I  would  keep  that  heart  as  a  casket  hid 

Where  precious  jewels  are  ranged, 
A  memory  each  ;  as  you  raise  the  lid, 
You  think  you  love  again  as  you  did 
Of  old,  and  nothing  seems  changed. 


Second  Series  59 

How  I  should  tremble  day  after  day, 
As  I  touch'd  with  the  golden  key, 
Lest  aught  in  that  heart  were  changed,  or  say 
That  another  had  stolen  one  thought  away 
And  it  did  not  open  to  me. 

But  ah,  I  should  know  that  heart  so  well, 

As  a  heart  so  loving  and  true, 
As  a  heart  that  I  held  with  a  golden  spell, 
That  so  long  as  I  changed  not  I  could  foretell 

That  heart  would  be  changeless  too. 

I  would  keep  that  heart  as  the  thought  of  heaven, 

To  dwell  in  a  life  apart, 
My  good  should  be  done,  my  gift  be  given, 
In  hope  of  the  recompense  there  ;  yea,  even 

My  life  should  be  led  in  that  heart. 

And  so  on  the  eve  of  some  blissful  day, 
From  within  we  should  close  the  door 
On  glimmering  splendours  of  love,  and  stay 
In  that  heart  shut  up  from  the  world  away, 
Never  to  open  it  more. 

A.  & Shaughnessy 

LII 
HOME  AT  LAST 

Now  more  the  bliss  of  love  is  felt, 

Though  felt  to  be  the  same  ; 
'Tis  still  our  lives  in  one  to  melt, 

Within  love's  sacred  flame  : 

Each  other's  joy  each  to  impart, 

Each  other's  grief  to  share  ; 
To  look  into  each  other's  heart, 

And  find  all  solace  there  : 

To  lay  the  head  upon  one  breast, 

To  press  one  answering  hand, 
To  feel  through  all  the  soul's  unrest, 

One  soul  to  understand  ; 


60  The  Golden  Treasury 

To  go  into  the  teeming  world, 

The  striving  and  the  heat, 
With  knowledge  of  one  tent  unfurl'd 

To  welcome  weary  feet  : 

A  shadow  in  a  weary  land, 

Where  men  as  wanderers  roam  : 

A  shadow  where  a  rock  doth  stand — 
The  shadow  of  a  Home. 

G.  J.  Romanes 

LIII 

SUDDEN  LIGH7 

I  have  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell : 

I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 

The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 

How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  : 
But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turn'd  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall, — I  knew  it  all  of  yore 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  love  restore 

In  death's  despite, 

And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once  more  ? 

D.   G.  Rossetti 


LIV 
NEVER    THE    TIME  AND    THE  PLACE 

Never  the  time  and  the  place 
And  the  loved  one  all  together  ! 

This  path — how  soft  to  pace  ! 
This  May — what  magic  weather  ! 


Second  Series  6l 

Where  is  the  loved  one's  face  ? 
In  a  dream  that  loved  one's  face  meets  mine, 
But  the  house  is  narrow,  the  place  is  bleak 
Where,  outside,  rain  and  wind  combine 
With  a  furtive  ear,  if  I  strive  to  speak, 
With  a  hostile  eye  at  my  flushing  cheek, 
With  a  malice  that  marks  each  word,  each  sign  J 
O  enemy  sly  and  serpentine, 

Uncoil  thee  from  the  waking  man  ! 
Do  I  hold  the  Past 
Thus  firm  and  fast 
Yet  doubt  if  the  Future  hold  I  can  ? 
This  path  so  soft  to  pace  shall  lead 
Thro'  the  magic  of  May  to  herself  indeed  ! 
Or  narrow  if  needs  the  house  must  be, 
Outside  are  the  storms  and  strangers  :  we—- 
Oh, close,  safe,  warm  sleep  I  and  she, 
— I  and  she  ! 

R.  Browning 


LV 

THE  BROOK-SIDE 

I  wander'd  by  the  brook-side, 

I  wander'd  by  the  mill, — 

I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow, 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 

There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

Nor  chirp  of  any  bird, 

But '  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree, 

I  watch'd  the  long,  long  shade, 

And  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid  ; 

For  I  listen'd  for  a  footfall, 

I  listen'd  for  a  word, — 

But '  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 


62  The  Golden  Treasury 

He  came  not, — no,  he  came  not, — 
The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat,  one  by  one, 
Each  on  his  golden  throne  ; 
The  evening  air  pass'd  by  my  cheek, 
The  leaves  above  were  stirr'd, — 
But '  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 
Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 
When  something  stood  behind, — 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder, 
I  knew  its  touch  was  kind  : 
It  drew  me  nearer — nearer, — 
We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  '  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

R.  M.  (Milnts)  Lord  Houghton 


LVI 

A  PAUSE 

They  made   the  chamber    sweet   with   flowers   and 
leaves, 

And  the  bed  sweet  with  flowers  on  which  I  lay ; 

While  my  soul,  love-bound,  loiter 'd  on  its  way. 
I  did  not  hear  the  birds  about  the  eaves, 
Nor  hear  the  reapers  talk  among  the  sheaves : 

Only  my  soul  kept  watch  from  day  to  day, 

My  thirsty  soul  kept  watch  for  one  away : — 
Perhaps  he  loves,  I  thought,  remembers,  grieves. 

At  length  there  came  the  step  upon  the  stair, 

Upon  the  lock  the  old  familiar  hand  : 
Then  first  my  spirit  seem'd  to  scent  the  air 

Of  Paradise  ;  then  first  the  tardy  sand 
Of  time  ran  golden  ;  and  I  felt  my  hair 

Put  on  a  glory,  and  my  soul  expand. 

C.   G.  Rossetti 


Second  Series  63 


LVII 

The  mighty  ocean  rolls  and  raves, 
To  part  us  with  its  angry  waves  ; 
But  arch  on  arch  from  shore  to  shore, 
In  a  vast  fabric  reaching  o'er, 

With  careful  labours  daily  wrought 
By  steady  hope  and  tender  thought, 
The  wide  and  weltering  waste  above — 
Our  hearts  have  bridged  it  with  their  love. 

There  fond  anticipations  fly 
To  rear  the  growing  structure  high  ; 
Dear  memories  upon  either  side 
Combine  to  make  it  large  and  wide. 

There,  happy  fancies  day  by  day, 
New  courses  sedulously  lay  ; 
There  soft  solicitudes,  sweet  fears, 
And  doubts  accumulate,  and  tears. 

While  the  pure  purpose  of  the  soul, 
To  form  of  many  parts  a  whole, 
To  make  them  strong  and  hold  them  true, 
From  end  to  end,  is  carried  through. 

Then  when  the  waters  war  between, 
Upon  the  masonry  unseen, 
Secure  and  swift,  from  shore  to  shore, 
With  silent  footfall  travelling  o'er, 

Our  sunder'd  spirits  come  and  go, 
Hither  and  thither,  to  and  fro, 
Pass  and  repass,  now  linger  near, 
Now  part,  anew  to  reappear. 

With  motions  of  a  glad  surprise, 
We  meet  each  other's  wondering  eyes, 
At  work,  at  play,  when  people  talk, 
And  when  we  sleep,  and  when  we  walk. 


64  The  Golden  Treasury 

Each  dawning  day  my  eyelids  see 
You  come,  methinks,  across  to  me, 
And  I,  at  every  hour  anew 
Could  dream  I  travell'd  o'er  to  you. 

A.  H.   Clough 


LVIII 

SILENT  NOON 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass,— 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms : 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.     The  pasture  gleams  and 
glooms 

'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 

All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass, 
Are  golden  kingcup- fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn-hedge. 

'Tis  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-search'd  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosen'd  from  the  sky  : — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh  !  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companion'd  inarticulate  hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 

£>.  G.  Rossetti 


LIX 

NUNC  A  MET  QUI  NUNQUAM  AMAVIT . 

'Twas  when  the  spousal  time  of  May 

Hangs  all  the  hedge  with  bridal  wreaths, 
And  air's  so  sweet,  the  bosom  gay 

Gives  thanks  for  every  breath  it  breathes, 
When  like  to  like  is  gladly  moved, 

And  each  thing  joins  in  Spring's  refrain, 
'  Let  those  love  now,  who  never  loved  ; 

Let  those  who  have  loved  love  again  ; J 


Second  Series  65 

That  I,  in  whom  the  sweet  time  wrought. 

Lay  stretch'd  within  a  lonely  glade, 
Abandon'd  to  delicious  thought 

Beneath  the  softly  twinkling  shade. 
The  leaves,  all  stirring,  mimick'd  well 

A  neighbouring  rush  of  rivers  cold, 
And,  as  the  sun  or  shadow  fell, 

So  these  were  green  and  those  were  gold ; 
In  dim  recesses  hyacinths  droop'd, 

And  breadths  of  primrose  lit  the  air, 
Which,  wandering  through  the  woodland,  stoop'd 

And  gather'd  perfumes  here  and  there  ; 
Upon  the  spray  the  squirrel  swung, 

And  careless  songsters,  six  or  seven, 
Sang  lofty  songs  the  leaves  among, 

Fit  for  their  only  listener,  Heaven. 

C.  Patmore 


LX 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
When  twilight  was  falling, 

Maud,  Maud,  Maud,  Maud, 
They  were  crying  and  calling. 

Where  was  Maud  ?  in  our  wood  ; 

And  I,  who  else,  was  with  her, 
Gathering  woodland  lilies, 

Myriads  blow  together. 

Birds  in  our  wood  sang 
Ringing  thro'  the  valleys, 

Maud  is  here,  here,  here 
In  among  the  lilies. 

I  kiss'd  her  slender  hand, 
She  took  the  kiss  sedately ; 

Maud  is  not  seventeen, 
But  she  is  tall  and  stately. 
F 


66  The  Golden  Treasury 

I  to  cry  out  on  pride 

Who  have  won  her  favour  ! 

0  Maud  were  sure  of  Heaven 
If  lowliness  could  save  her. 

1  know  the  way  she  went 
Home  with  her  maiden  posy, 

For  her  feet  have  touch'd  the  meadows 
And  left  the  daisies  rosy. 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 
Were  crying  and  calling  to  her, 

Where  is  Maud,  Maud,  Maud  ? 
One  is  come  to  woo  her. 

Look,  a  horse  at  the  door, 
And  little  King  Charley  snarling  : 

— Go  back,  my  lord,  across  the  moor, 
You  are  not  her  darling. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


LXI 

A   LOVE  SYMPHONY 

Along  the  garden  ways  just  now 

I  heard  the  flowers  speak  ; 
The  white  rose  told  me  of  your  brow, 

The  red  rose  of  your  cheek  ; 
The  lily  of  your  bended  head, 

The  bindweed  of  your  hair  : 

Each  look'd  its  loveliest  and  said 

You  were  more  fair. 

I  went  into  the  wood  anon, 
And  heard  the  wild  birds  sing, 

How  sweet  you  were  ;  they  warbled  on, 
Piped,  trill'd  the  selfsame  thing. 

Thrush,  blackbird,  linnet,  without  pause 
The  burden  did  repeat, 

And  still  began  again  because 
You  were  more  sweet. 


Second  Series  67 

And  then  I  went  down  to  the  sea, 

And  heard  it  murmuring  too, 
Part  of  an  ancient  mystery, 

All  made  of  me  and  you  : 
How  many  a  thousand  years  ago 

I  loved,  and  you  were  sweet — 
Longer  I  could  not  stay,  and  so 

I  fled  back  to  your  feet. 

A.  O*  Shaughnessy 


LXII 

FAR— FAR— A  WA  Y 
(FOR  MUSIC) 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew 
As  where  earth's  green  stole  into  heaven's  own  hue, 
Far — far — away  ? 

What  sound  was  dearest  in  his  native  dells  ? 
The  mellow  lin-lan-lone  of  evening  bells 

Far — far — away. 

What  vague  world-whisper,  mystic  pain  or  joy, 
Thro'  those  three  words  would  haunt  him  when  a  boy, 
Far — far — away  ? 

A  whisper  from  his  dawn  of  life  ?  a  breath 
From  some  fair  dawn  beyond  the  doors  of  death 
Far — far — away  ? 

Far,  far,  how  far  ?  from  o'er  the  gates  of  Birth, 
The  faint  horizons,  all  the  bounds  of  earth, 

Far — far — away  ? 

What  charm  in  words,  a  charm  no  words  could  give  ? 
O  dying  words,  can  Music  make  you  live 

Far — far — away  ? 
A.  Lord  J^ennyson 


68  The    Golden    Treasury 

LXIII 

THE   <  OLD,    OLD  SONG ' 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  gr55h  ; 
And  every  goose  a  swan,  lad, 

And  every  lass  a  queen  ; 
Then  hey  for  boot  and  horse,  lad, 

And  round  the  world  away  ; 
Young  blood  must  have  its  course,  lad, 

And  every  dog  his  day. 

When  all  the  world  is  old,  lad, 

And  all  the  trees  are  brown ; 
And  all  the  sport  is  stale,  lad, 

And  all  the  wheels  run  down  : 
Creep  home,  and  take  your  place  there, 

The  'spent  and  maim'd  among  : 
God  grant  you  find  one  face  there 

You  loved  when  all  was  young. 

C.  Kingsley 

LXIV 

ON  A   PHOTOGRAPH 

Since  through  the  open  window  of  the  eye 
The  unconscious  secret  of  the  soul  we  trace, 
And  character  is  written  on  the  face, 

In  this  sun-picture  what  do  we  descry? 

An  artless  innocence,  and  purpose  high 

To  tread  the  pleasant  paths  of  truth  and  grace, 
To  tend  each  flower  of  Duty  in  its  place, 

Smile  with  the  gay  and  comfort  those  who  sigh. 

Dear  maiden,  let  a  poet  breathe  the  prayer 
That  God  may  keep  thee  still,  in  all  thy  ways, 

Spotless  in  heart  as  those  in  face  art  fair  ; 
And  may  the  gentle  current  of  thy  days 

Make  music  even  from  the  stones  of  care, 
And  murmur  with  an  undersong  of  praise. 

R.  Wilton 


Second  Series  69 


OLD  JANE 

I  love  old  women  best,  I  think : 

She  knows  a  friend  in  me, — 
Old  Jane,  who  totters  on  the  brink 

Of  Go<f  s  Eternity ; 
WhoseTImbs  are  stiff,  whose  cheek  is  lean, 

Whose  eyes  look  up,  afraid ; 
Though  you  may  gather  she  has  been 

A  little  laughing  maid. 

Once  had  she  with  her  doll  what  times, 

And  with  her  skipping-rope  ! 
Her  head  was  full  of  lovers'  rhymes, 

Once,  and  her  heart  of  hope ; 
Who,  now,  with  eyes  as  sad  as  sweet, — 

I  love  to  look  on  her, — 
At  corner  of  the  gusty  street, 

Asks,  '  Buy  a  pencil,  Sir  ?' 

Her  smile  is  as  the  litten  West, 

Nigh-while  the  sun  is  gone ; 
She  is  more  fain  to  be  at  rest 

Than  here  to  linger  on : 
Beneath  her  lids  the  pictures  flit 

Of  memories  far-away : 
Her  look  has  not  a  hint  in  it 

Of  what  she  sees  to-day. 

T.  Ashe 

LXVI 

WAGES 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song, 
Paid  with  a  voice  flying  by  to  be  lost  on  an  endless 

sea- 
Glory  of  Virtue,  to  fight,  to  struggle,  to  right  the 

wrong — • 
Nay,  but  she  aim'd  not  at  glory,  no  lover  of  glory 

she: 
Give  her  the  glory  of  going  on,  and  still  to  be. 


70  The    Golden    Treasury 

The  wages  of  sin  is  death :  if  the  wages  of  Virtue  be 

dust, 
Would  she  have  heart  to  endure  for  the  life  of  the 

worm  and  the  fly  ? 
She  desires  no  isles  of  the  blest,  no  quiet  seats  of  the 

just, 
To  rest  in  a  golden  grove,  or  to  bask  in  a  summer 

sky: 
Give  her  the  wages  of  going  on,  and  not  to  die. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


LXVII 

THE  MEN  OF  OLD 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old 

Were  better  than  men  now, 
Of  heart  more  kind,  of  hand  more  bold, 

Of  more  ingenuous  brow : 
I  heed  not  those  who  pine  for  force 

A  ghost  of  Time  to  raise, 
As  if  they  thus  could  check  the  course 

Of  these  appointed  days. 

To  them  was  life  a  simple  art 

Of  duties  to  be  done, 
A  game  where  each  man  took  his  part, 

A  race  where  all  must  run ; 
A  battle  whose  great  scheme  and  scope 

They  little  cared  to  know, 
Content,  as  men  at  arms,  to  cope 

Each  with  his  fronting  foe. 

Man  now  his  Virtue's  diadem 

Puts  on  and  proudly  wears, 
Great  thoughts,  great  feelings,  came  to  them, 

Like  instincts,  unawares : 
Blending  their  souls'  sublimest  needs 

With  tasks  of  every  day, 
They  went  about  their  gravest  deeds, 

As  noble  boys  at  play. 

R.  M.  (Milnes)  Lord  Houghton 


Second  Series  71 


MAGNA   EST  VE RITAS 

Here,  in  this  little  Bay, 
Full  of  tumultuous  life  and  great  repose, 
Where,  twice  a  day, 

The  purposeless,  glad  ocean  comes  and  goes, 
Under  high  cliffs,  and  far  from  the  huge  town, 
I  sit  me  down. 

For  want  of  me  the  world's  course  will  not  fail ; 
When  all  its  work  is  done,  the  lie  shall  rot ; 
The  truth  is  great,  and  shall  prevail, 
When  none  cares  whether  it  prevail  or  not. 

C.  Patmore 


LXIX 

THE  SUN'S  SHAME 

Beholding  youth  and  hope  in  mockery  caught 
From  life  ;  and  mocking  pulses  that  remain 
When  the  soul's  death  of  bodily  death  is  fain  ; 

Honour  unknown,  and  honour  known  unsought ;   . 

And  penury's  sedulous  self- torturing  thought 

On  gold,  whose  master  therewith  buys  his  bane  ; 
And  long'd-for  woman  longing  all  in  vain 

For  lonely  man  with  love's  desire  distraught ; 

And  wealth,  and  strength,  and  power,  and  pleasant- 
ness, 

Given  unto  bodies  of  whose  souls  men  say, 
None  poor  and  weak,  slavish  and  foul,  as  they : — 

Beholding  these  things,  I  behold  no  less 

The  blushing  morn  and  blushing  eve  confess 
The  shame  that  loads  the  intolerable  day. 

D.   G.  Rossetti 


72  Ihe  Golden   Treasury 

LXX 

SIC  ITUR 

As,  at  a  railway  junction,  men 
Who  came  together,  taking  then 
One  the  train  up,  one  down,  again 

Meet  never  !     Ah,  much  more  as  they 
Who  take  one  street's  two  sides,  and  say 
Hard  parting  words,  but  walk  one  way  : 

Though  moving  other  mates  between, 
While  carts  and  coaches  intervene, 
Each  to  the  other  goes  unseen  ; 

Yet  seldom,  surely,  shall  there  lack 
Knowledge  they  walk  not  back  to  back, 
But  with  an  unity  of  track, 

Where  common  dangers  each  attend, 
And  common  hopes  their  guidance  lend 
To  light  them  to  the  self-same  end. 

Whether  he  then  shall  cross  to  thee, 

Or  thou  go  thither,  or  it  be 

Some  midway  point,  ye  yet  shall  see 

Each  other,  yet  again  shall  meet. 

Ah,  joy  !  when  with  the  closing  street, 

Forgivingly  at  last  ye  greet ! 

A.  H.   Clough 


LXXI 

NEXT  OF  KIN 

The  shadows  gather  round  me,  while  you  are  in  the 

sun  : 
My  day  is  almost  ended,  but  yours  is  just  begun  : 


Second  Series  73 

The  winds  are  singing  to  us  both  and  the  streams  are 

singing  still, 
And  they  fill  your  heart  with  music,  but  mine  they 

cannot  fill. 

Your  home  is  built  in  sunlight,  mine  in  another  day  : 
Your  home  is  close  at  hand,  sweet  friend,  but  mine  is 

far  away : 

Your  bark  is  in  the  haven  where  you  fain  would  be  : 
I  must  launch  out  into  the  deep,  across  the  unknown 

sea. 

You,  white  as  dove  or  lily  or  spirit  of  the  light : 

I,  stain'd  and  cold  and  glad  to  hide  in  the  cold  dark 

night : 
You,  joy  to  many  a  loving  heart  and  light  to  many 

eyes : 
I,  lonely  in  the  knowledge  earth  is  full  of  vanities. 

Yet  when  your  day  is  over,  as  mine  is  nearly  done, 
And  when  your  race  is  finish'd,  as  mine   is  almost 

run, 
You,  like  me,  shall  cross  your  hands  and  bow  your 

graceful  head  : 
Yea.  we  twain  shall  sleep  together  in  an  equal  bed. 

C.   G.  Rossetti 


LXXII 
THE  SPECTRE   OF  THE  PAST 

On  the  great  day  of  my  life — 
On  the  memorable  day — 

Just  as  the  long  inward  strife 
Of  the  echoes  died  away, 
Just  as  on  my  couch  I  lay 
Thinking  thought  away ; 

Came  a  Man  into  my  room, 

Bringing  with  him  gloom. 


74  The  Golden  Treasury 

Midnight  stood  upon  the  clock, 

And  the  street  sound  ceased  to  rise  ; 

Suddenly,  and  with  no  knock, 
Came  that  Man  before  my  eyes  : 
Yet  he  seem'd  not  anywise 
My  heart  to  surprise, 

And  he  sat  down  to  abide 

At  my  fireside. 

But  he  stirr'd  within  my  heart 
Memories  of  the  ancient  days  ; 

And  strange  visions  seem'd  to  start 
Vividly  before  my  gaze, 
Yea,  from  the  most  distant  haze 
Of  forgotten  ways : 

And  he  look'd  on  me  the  while 

With  a  most  strange  smile. 

But  my  heart  seem'd  well  to  know 
That  his  face  the  semblance  had 

Of  my  own  face  long  ago 

Ere  the  years  had  made  it  sad, 
When  my  youthful  looks  were  clad 
In  a  smile  half  glad  ; 

To  my  heart  he  seern'd  in  truth 

All  my  vanish'd  youth. 

Then  he  named  me  by  a  name 

Long  since  unfamiliar  grown, 
But  remember'd  for  the  same 

That  my  childhood's  ears  had  known  ; 

And  his  voice  was  like  my  own 

In  a  sadder  tone 
Coming  from  the  happy  years 
Choked,  alas,  with  tears. 

And,  as  though  he  nothing  knew 
Of  that  day's  fair  triumphing, 

Or  the  Present  were  not  true, 
Or  not  worth  remembering, 
All  the  Past  he  seem'd  to  bring 
As  a  piteous  thing 

Back  upon  my  heart  again, 

Yea  with  a  great  pain  : 


Second  Series  75 

'  Do  you  still  remember  the  winding  street 
In  the  gray  old  village?'  he  seem'd  to  say  ; 

*  And    the   long   school   days    that   the   sun  made 

sweet 

And  the  thought  of  the  flowers  from  far  away  ? 
And  the  faces  of  friends  whom  you  used  to  meet 
In  that  village  day  by  day, 
— Ay,  the  face  of  this  one  or  of  that  ? }  he  said, 
And  the  names  he  named  were  names  of"  the  dead 
Who  all  in  the  churchyard  lay. 

*  And  do  you  remember  the  far  green  hills  ; 

Or  the  long  straight  path  by  the  side  of  the  stream  ; 
Or  the  road  that  led  to  the  farm  and  the  mills, 
And  the  fields  where   you  oft  used  to  wander  or 

dream 

Or  follow  each  change  of  your  childish  wills 
Like  the  dance  of  some  gay  sunbeam  ?  ' — 
Then,  alas,  from  right  weeping  I  could  not  refrain, 
For  indeed  all  those  things  I  remember'd  again, — 
As  of  yesterday  they  did  seem. 

And  I  thought  of  a  day  in  a  far  lost  Spring, 

When  the  sun  with  a  kiss  set  the  wild  flowers  free ; 

When  my  heart  felt  the  kiss  and  the  shadowy  wing 

Of  some  beautiful  spirit  of  things  to  be, 

Who  breathed  in  the  song  that  the  wild  birds  sing 

Some  deep  tender  meaning  for  me, — 

Who  undid  a  strange  spell  in  the  world  as  it  were, 

Who  set  wide  sweet  whispers  abroad  in  the  air, — 

Made  a  presence  I  could  not  see. 

4  O  for  what  have  you  wander'd  so  far — so  long  ? ' 
Said  the  voice  that  was  e'en  as  my  voice  of  old  : 
'  O  for  what  have  you  done  to  the  Past  such  wrong  ? 
Was  there  no  fair  dream  on  your  own  threshold  ? 
In    your    childhood's    home    was   there    no   fresh 

song  ? 

— Was  your  heart  then  all  so  cold  ? 
Why,  at  length,  are  you  weary,  and  lone  and  sad, 
But  for  casting  away  all  the  good  that  you  had 
With  the  peace  that  was  yours  of  old  ? 


76  The   Golden   Treasury 

*  Have  you  wholly  forgotten  the  words  you  said, 
When  you  stood  by  a  certain  mound  of  earth, 
When  you  vow'd  with  your  heart  that  that  place  you 

made 

The  last  burial-place  for  your  love  and  your  mirth, 
For  the  pure  past  blisses  you  therein  laid 
Were  surely  your  whole  life's  worth  ? — 
O,  the  angels  who  deck  the  lone  graves  with  their 

tears 

Have  cared  for  this,  morning  and  evening,  for  years, 
But  of  yours  there  has  been  long  dearth  : 

*  In  the  pure  pale  sheen  of  a  hallow'd  night, 
When  the  graves  are  looking  their  holiest, 
You  may  see  it  more  glistering  and  more  bright 
And  holier-looking  than  all  the  rest ; 

You  may  see  that  the  dews  and  the  stars'  strange 

light 

Are  loving  that  grave  the  best ; 
But,  perhaps,  if  you  went  in  the  clear  noon-day, 
After  so   many  years  you   might   scarce   find   the 

way 
Ere  you  tired  indeed  of  the  quest : 

'  For  the  path  that  leads  to  it  is  almost  lost ; 

And  quite  tall  grass-flowers  of  sickly  blue 

Have  grown  up  there  and  gather'd  for  years,  and 

tost 

Bitter  germs  all  around  them  to  grow  up  too  ; 
For  indeed  all  these  years  not  a  man  has  crost 
That  pathway — not  even  You  ! ' — 
But  alas  !  for  these  words  to  my  heart  he  sent, 
For  I  knew  it  was  Marguerite's  grave  that  he  meant, 
And  T  felt  that  the  words  were  true. 

A.  O*  Shaughntssy 


Second  Series  77 

LXXIII 

LOCKSLEY  HALL 

Comrades,   leave  me  here   a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis 

early  morn : 
Leave  me  here,  and  when  you  want  me,  sound  upon 

the  bugle-horn. 

'Tis  the  place,  and  all  around  it,  as  of  old,  the  cur- 
lews call, 

Dreary  gleams  about  the  moorland  flying  over  Locks- 
ley  Hall ; 

Locksley  Hall,   that   in   the   distance   overlooks   the 

sandy  tracts, 
And  the  hollow  ocean-ridges  roaring  into  cataracts. 

Many  a  night  from  yonder  ivied  casement,  ere  I  went 

to  rest, 
Did  I  look  on  great  Orion  sloping  slowly  to  the  West. 

Many   a   night   I   saw  the    Pleiads,   rising  thro'  the 

mellow  shade, 
Glitter  like  a  swarm  of  fire-flies  tangled  in  a  silver 

braid. 

Here  about  the  beach  I  wander'd,  nourishing  a  youth 

sublime 
With  the  fairy  tales  of  science,  and  the  long  result  of 

Time; 

When  the  centuries  behind  me  like  a  fruitful  land 

reposed ; 
When  I  clung  to  all  the  present  for  the  promise  that 

it  closed  : 

When  I  dipt  into  the  future  far  as  human  eye  could 

see  ; 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that . 

would  be. 


78  The  Golden   Treasury 

In  the  Spring  a  fuller  crimson  comes  upon  the  robin's 

breast ; 
In   the    Spring    the    wanton    lapwing    gets   himself 

another  crest ; 

In  the  Spring  a  livelier  iris  changes  on  the  burnish'd 

dove ; 
In  the  Spring  a  young  man's  fancy  lightly  turns  to 

thoughts  of  love. 

Then  her  cheek  was  pale  and  thinner  than  should  be 
for  one  so  young, 

And  her  eyes  on  all  my  motions  with  a  mute  observ- 
ance hung. 

And  I  said,  '  My  cousin  Amy,  speak,  and  speak  the 

truth  to  me, 
Trust  me,  cousin,  all  the  current  of  my  being  sets  to 

thee.' 

On  her  pallid  cheek  and  forehead  came  a  colour  and 

a  light, 
As  I  have  seen  the  rosy  red  flushing  in  the  northern 

night. 

And   she   turn'd — her  bosom  shaken  with  a  sudden 

storm  of  sighs — 
All  the  spirit  deeply  dawning  in  the  dark  of  hazel 

eyes — 

Saying,  *  I  have  hid  my  feelings,  fearing  they  should 

do  me  wrong  ; ' 
Saying,   *  Dost  thou  love  me,  cousin  ? '  weeping,  *  I 

have  loved  thee  long.' 

Love  took  up  the  glass  of  Time,  and  turn'd  it  in  his 

glowing  hands  ; 
Every  moment,  lightly  shaken,  ran  itself  in  golden 

sands. 

Love  took  up  the  harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all  the 

chords  with  might ; 
Smote  the  chord  of   Self,  that,  trembling,   pass'd  in 

music  out  of  sight. 


Second  Series  79 

Many  a  morning  on  the  moorland  did  we  hear  the 
copses  ring,  ' 

And  her  whisper  throng'd  my  pulses  with  the  fulness 
of  the  Spring. 

Many  an  evening  by  the  waters  did  we  watch  the 

stately  ships, 
And  our  spirits  rush'd  together  at  the  touching  of  the 

lips. 

O  my  cousin,  shallow-hearted  !    O  my  Amy,  mine  no 

more  ! 
O  the  dreary,  dreary  moorland  !    O  the  barren,  barren 

shore  ! 

Falser  than  all  fancy  fathoms,  falser  than  all  songs 

have  sung, 
Puppet  to  a  father's  threat,  and  servile  to  a  shrewish 

tongue  ! 

Is  it  well  to  wish  thee  happy  ?--having  known  me—- 
to decline 

On  a  range  of  lower  feelings  and  a  narrower  heart 
than  mine  ! 

Yet  it  shall  be  :  thou  shalt  lower  to  his  level  day  by 

day, 
What  is  fine  within  thee  growing  coarse  to  sympathise 

with  clay. 

/\s  the  husband  is,  the  wife  is  :  thou  art  mated  with  a 

clown, 
And  the  grossness  of  his  nature  will  have  weight  to 

drag  thee  down. 

He  will  hold  thee,  when  his  passion  shall  have  spent 

its  novel  force, 
Something  better  than  his  dog,  a  little  dearer  than  his 

horse. 

What  is  this  ?  his  eyes  are  heavy  :  think  not  they  are 

glazed  with  wine. 
Go  to  him  :  it  is  thy  duty  :  kiss  him  :  take  his  hand 

in  thine. 


So  The  Golden   Treasury 

It  may  be  my  lord  is  weary,  that  his  brain  is  over 

wrought : 
Soothe  him  with  thy  finer  fancies,  touch  him  with  thy 

lighter  thought. 

He  will  answer  to  the  purpose,  easy  things  to  under- 
stand— 

Better  thou  wert  dead  before  me,  tho'  I  slew  thee  with 
my  hand  ! 

Better  thou  and  I  were  lying,  hidden  from  the  heart's 

disgrace, 
Roll'd   in   one   another's   arms,   and  silent  in  a  last 

embrace. 

Cursed  be  the  social  wants  that  sin  against  the  strength 

of  youth  ! 
Cursed  be  the  social  lies  that  warp  us  from  the  living 

truth  ! 

Cursed   be   the   sickly   forms   that   err    from   honest 

Nature's  rule  ! 
Cursed  be  the  gold  that  gilds  the  straiten'd  forehead 

of  the  fool  ! 

Well— 'tis  well  that  I   should  bluster  !— Hadst  thou 

less  unworthy  proved — 
Would  to  God — for  I  had  loved  thee  more  than  ever 

wife  was  loved. 

Am  I  mad,  that  I  should  cherish  that  which  bears  but 

bitter  fruit  ? 
I  will  pluck  it  from  my  bosom,  tho'  my  heart  be  at 

the  root. 

Never,  tho'  my  mortal  summers  to  such  length  of  years 

should  come 
As  the  many-winter'd  crow  that  leads  the  clanging 

rookery  home. 

Where  is  comfort  ?  in  division  of  the  records  of  the 

mind? 
Can  I  part  her  from  herself,  and  love  her,  as  1  knew 

her,  kind  ? 


Second  Series  81 

I  remember  one  that  perish'd  :  sweetly  did  she  speak 

and  move : 
Such  a  one  do  I  remember,  whom  to  look  at  was  to 

love. 

Can  I  think  of  her  as  dead,  and  love  her  for  the  love 
she  bore  ? 

No — she  never  loved  me  truly  :  love  is  love  for  ever- 
more. 

Comfort  ?  comfort  scorn'd  of  devils  !  this  is  truth  the 

poet  sings, 
That  a  sorrow's    crown   of    sorrow   is   remembering 

happier  things. 

Drug  thy  memories,  lest  thou  learn  it,  lest  thy  heart 

be  put  to  proof, 
In  the  dead  unhappy  night,  and  when  the  rain  is  on 

the  roof. 

Like  a  dog,  he  hunts  in  dreams,  and  thou  art  staring 

at  the  wall, 
Where  the  dying  night-lamp  flickers,  and  the  shadows 

rise  and  fall.  • 

Then  a  hand  shall  pass  before  thee,  pointing  to  his 

drunken  sleep, 
To  thy  widow'd  marriage-pillows,   to  the  tears  that 

thou  wilt  weep. 

Thou  shalt  hear  the  '  Never,  never,'  whisper'd  by  the 

phantom  years, 
And  a  song  from  out  the  distance  in  the  ringing  of 

thine  ears ; 

And  an  eye  shall  vex  thee,  looking  ancient  kindness 

on  thy  pain. 
Turn  thee,  turn  thee  on  thy  pillow  :  get  thee  to  thy 

rest  again. 

Nay,  but  Nature  brings  thee  solace  ;  for  a  tender  voice 

will  cry. 
'Tis  a  purer  life  than  mine  ;  a  lip  to  drain  thy  trouble 

dry. 


82  The  Golden  Treasury 

Baby  lips  will  laugh  me  down  :  my  latest  rival  brings 

thee  rest. 
Baby   fingers,    waxen   touches,    press    me   from    the 

mother's  breast. 

O,  the  child  too  clothes  the  father  with  a  dearness  not 

his  due. 
Half  is  thine,  and  half  is  his  :  it  will  be  worthy  of  the 

two. 

0,  I   see    thee  old  and   formal,  fitted  to  thy  petty 

part, 

With  a  little  hoard  of  maxims  preaching  down  a 
daughter's  heart. 

'  They  were  dangerous  guides  the  feelings — she  herself 
was  not  exempt — 

Truly,  she  herself  had  suffer'd ' — Perish  in  thy  self- 
contempt  ! 

Overlive  it — lower  yet— be  happy  !  wherefore  should 

I  care  ? 
I   myself  must   mix   with   action,    lest   I   wither  by 

despair. 

What  is  that  which   I  should  turn  to,  lighting  upon 

days  like  these  ? 
Every  door   is   barr'd   with   gold,   and  opens  but  to 

golden  keys. 

Every  gate  is  throng'd  with  suitors,  all  the  markets 

overflow. 
I   have   but   an  angry  fancy  :  what   is  that  which  I 

should  do  ? 

1.  had  been  content  to  perish,  falling  on  the  foeman's 

ground, 

When  the  ranks  are  roll'd  in  vapour,  and  the  winds 
are  laid  with  sound. 

But  the  jingling  of  the  guinea  helps  the  hurt  that 

Honour  feels, 

.  And  the  nations  do  but  murmur,   snarling  at   each 
other's  heels. 


Second  Series  83 

Can  I  but  relive  in  sadness  ?     I  will  turn  that  earlier 

page. 
Hide  me  from  my  deep  emotion,  O  thou  wondrous 

Mother- Age  ! 

Make  me  feel  the  wild  pulsation  that  I  felt  before  the 

strife, 
When  I  heard  my  days  before  me,  and  the  tumult  of 

my  life ; 

Yearning  for  the  large  excitement  that  the  coming 

years  would  yield, 
Eager-hearted  as  a  boy  when  first  he  leaves  his  father's 

field, 

And  at  night  along  the  dusky  highway  near  and  nearer 

drawn, 
Sees  in  heaven  the  light  of  London   flaring  like  a 

dreary  dawn  ; 

And  his  spirit  leaps  within  him  to  be  gone  before  him  ; 

then, 
Underneath    the   light   he   looks   at,    in   among   the 

throngs  of  men  : 

Men,   my  brothers,   men  the   workers,   ever  reaping 

something  new  : 
That  which  they  have  done  but  earnest  of  the  things 

that  they  shall  do  : 

For  I  dipt  into  the  future,  far  as  human  eye  could 

see, 
Saw  the  Vision  of  the  world,  and  all  the  wonder  that 

would  be  ; 

Saw  the  heavens  fill  with  commerce,  argosies  of  magic 

sails, 
Pilots  of  the  purple  twilight,   dropping   down   with 

costly  bales  ; 

Heard  the  heavens  fill  with  shouting,  and  there  rain'd 

a  ghastly  dew 
From  the  nations'  airy  navies  grappling  in  the  central 

blue ; 


84  The  Golden   Treasury 

Far  along  the  world-wide  whisper  of  the  south-wind 

rushing  warm, 
With  the  standards  of  the  peoples  plunging  thro'  the 

thunder-storm  ; 

Till  the  war-drum  throbb'd  no  longer,  and  the  battle- 
flags  were  furl'd 

In  the  Parliament  of  man,  the  Federation  of  the 
world. 

• 

There  the  common  sense  of  most  shall  hold  a  fretful 
realm  in  awe, 

And  the  kindly  earth  shall  slumber,  lapt  in  universal 
law. 

So  I  triumph'd  ere  my  passion  sweeping  thro'  me  left 

me  dry, 
Left  me  with  the  palsied  heart,  and  left  me  with  the 

jaundiced  eye  ; 

Eye,  to  which  all  order  festers,  all  things  here  are  out 

of  joint : 
Science  moves,  but  slowly  slowly,  creeping  on  from 

point  to  point : 

Slowly  comes  a  hungry  people,  as  a  lion  creeping 
nigher, 

Glares  at  one  that  nods  and  winks  behind  a  slowly- 
dying  fire. 

Yet  I  doubt  not  thro'  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose 

runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widen'd  with  the  process 

of  the  suns. 

What  is  that  to  him   that  reaps  not  harvest  of  his 

youthful  joys, 
Tho'  the  deep  heart  of  existence  beat  for  ever  like  a 

boy's  ? 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  I  linger 

on  the  shore, 
And  the  individual  withers,  and  the  world  is  more  and 

more. 


Second  Series  85 

Knowledge  comes,  but  wisdom  lingers,  and  he  bears 

a  laden  breast, 
Full  of  sad  experience,  moving  toward  the  stillness  of 

his  rest. 

Hark,  my  merry  comrades  call  me,  sounding  on  the 

bugle-horn, 
They  to  whom  my  foolish  passion  were  a  target  for 

their  scorn  : 

Shall  it  not  be  scorn  to  me  to  harp  on  such  a  moulder'd 

string  ? 
I  am  shamed  thro'  all   my  nature  to  have  loved  so 

slight  a  thing. 

Weakness    to    be    wroth    with    weakness !    woman's 

pleasure,  woman's  pain- 
Nature  made  them  blinder  motions  bounded  in  a  shal- 
lower brain : 

Woman  is  the  lesser  man,  and  all  thy  passions,  match'd 

with  mine, 
Are  as  moonlight   unto  sunlight,  and  as  water  unto 

wine — 

Here  at  least,  where  nature  sickens,  nothing.     Ah,  for 

some  retreat 
Deep  in  yonder  shining  Orient,  where  my  life  began 

to  beat ; 

Where  in  wild    Mahratta-battle  fell   my  father  evil- 

starr'd  ; — 
I  was  left  a  trampled   orphan,  and  a  selfish  uncle's 

ward. 

Or  to  burst  all  links  of  habit — there  to  wander  far 

away, 
On  from  island  unto  island  at  the  gateways  of  the 

day. 

Larger   constellations    burning,    mellow   moons    and 

happy  skies, 
Breadths  of  tropic  shade  and  palms  in  cluster,  knots 

of  Paradise. 


86  The  Golden   Treasury 

Never  comes   the   trader,  never   floats  an  European 

flag, 
Slides   the   bird  o'er   lustrous  woodland,  swings   the 

trailer  from  the  crag  ; 

Droops  the  heavy-blossom 'd  bower,  hangs  the  heavy- 
fruited  tree — 

Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark-purple  spheres  of 
sea. 

There  methinks  would  be  enjoyment  more  than  in  this 

march  of  mind, 
In  the  steamship,  in  the  railway,  in  the  thoughts  that 

shake  mankind. 

There  the  passions  cramp'd  no  longer  shall  have  scope 

and  breathing  space  ; 
I  will  take  some  savage  woman,  she  shall  rear  my 

dusky  race. 

Iron-jointed,  supple-sinew'd,  they  shall  dive,  and  they 

shall  run, 
Catch  the  wild  goat  by  the  hair,  and  hurl  their  lances 

in  the  sun ; 

Whistle  back  the  parrot's  call,  and  leap  the  rainbows 

of  the  brooks, 
Not   with    blinded   eyesight    poring   over    miserable 

books — 

Fool,  again   the  dream,  the  fancy  !  but  I  know  my 

words  are  wild, 
But  I  count  the  gray  barbarian  lower  than  the  Christian 

child. 

I,  to  herd  with  narrow  foreheads,  vacant  of  our  glorious 

gains, 
Like  a  beast  with  lower  pleasures,  like  a  beast  with 

lower  pains  ! 

Mated  with  a  squalid  savage — what  to  me  were  sun  or 

clime  ? 
I  the  heir  of  all  the  ages,  in  the  foremost  files  of  time — 


Second  Series  87 

>  that  rather  held  it  better  men  should  perish  one  by 

one, 
Than   that  earth  should  stand  at  gaze  like  Joshua's 

moon  in  Ajalon  ! 

Not  in  vain  the  distance  beacons.     Forward,  forward 

let  us  range, 
Let  the  great  world  spin  for  ever  down  the  ringing 

grooves  of  change. 

Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we   sweep  into  the 

younger  day  : 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay. 

Mother- Age  (for  mine  I  knew  not)  help  me  as  when 

life  begun  : 
Rift  the  hills,  and  roll  the  waters,  flash  the  lightnings, 

weigh  the  Sun. 

O,  I  see  the  crescent  promise  of  my  spirit  hath  not  set. 
Ancient  founts  of  inspiration  well  thro'  all  my  fancy 
yet. 

Howsoever  these  things  be,  a  long  farewell  to  Locksley 

Hall! 
Now  for  me  the  woods  may  wither,  now  for  me  the 

roof-tree  fall. 

Comes  a  vapour  from  the  margin,  blackening  over 
heath  and  holt, 

Cramming  all  the  blast  before  it,  in  its  breast  a  thunder- 
bolt. 

Let  it  fall  on  Locksley  Hall,  with  rain  or  hail,  or  fire 

or  snow  ; 

For  the  mighty  wind  arises,  roaring  seaward,  and  I  go. 
A.  Lord  7'ennyson 


The  Golden  Treasury 
LXXIV 

STRANGERS    YET 

Strangers  yet  ! 
After  years  of  life  together, 
After  fair  and  stormy  weather, 
After  travel  in  far  lands, 
After  touch  of  wedded  hands, — 
Why  thus  join'd  ?     Why  ever  met, 
If  they  must  be  strangers  yet  ? 

Strangers  yet  ! 

After  childhood's  winning  ways, 
After  care  and  blame  and  praise, 
Counsel  ask'd  and  wisdom  given, 
After  mutual  prayers  to  Heaven, 
Child  and  parent  scarce  regret 
When  they  part — are  strangers  yet. 

Strangers  yet  ! 

After  strife  for  common  ends — 
After  title  of  *  old  friends,' 
After  passions  fierce  and  tender, 
After  cheerful  self-surrender, 
Hearts  may  beat  and  eyes  be  met, 
And  the  souls  be  strangers  yet. 

Strangers  yet  ! 

Oh  !  the  bitter  thought  to  scan 
All  the  loneliness  of  man  : — 
Nature,  by  magnetic  laws, 
Circle  unto  circle  draws, 
But  they  only  touch  when  met, 
Never  mingle — strangers  yet. 

R.  M.  (Mtlnes)  Lord  Houghton 


Second  Series  89 


QUA    CURSUM   VENT  US 

As  ships,  becalm'd  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at1  dawn  of  day 

Are  scarce  long  leagues  apart  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upsprung  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied, 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so — but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those,  whom  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  join'd  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  fill'd, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steer'd — 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  will'd, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appear'd ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain, 
Brave  barks !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides— 
To  that,  and  your  own  selves,  be  true. 

But  O  blithe  breeze  !  and  O  great  seas, 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past, 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again, 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last  : 

One  port,  methought,  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, — 

O  bounding  breeze,  O  rushing  seas  ! 
At  last,  at  last,  upite  them  there  ! 

A.  H.  Clough 


90  The  Golden  Treasury 

LXXVI 

A   SUMMER  NIGHT 

In  the  deserted,  moon-blanch'd  street, 
How  lonely  rings  the  echo  of  my  feet ! 
Those  windows,  which  I  gaze  at,  frown, 
Silent  and  white,  unopening  down, 
Repellent  as  the  world  ; — but  see, 
A  break  between  the  housetops  shows 
The  moon  !  and,  lost  behind  her,  fading  dim 
Into  the  dewy  dark  obscurity 
Down  at  the  far  horizon's  rim, 
Doth  a  whole  tract  of  heaven  disclose  ! 

And  to  my  mind  the  thought 
Is  on  a  sudden  brought 
Of  a  past  night,  and  a  far  different  scene. 
Headlands  stood  out  into  the  moonlit  deep 
As  clearly  as  at  noon  ; 
The  spring-tide's  brimming  flow 
Heaved  dazzlingly  between  ; 
Houses,  with  long  white  sweep, 
Girdled  the  glistening  bay  ; 
Behind,  through  the  soft  air, 
The  blue  haze-cradled  mountains  spread  away, 
The  night  was  far  more  fair — 
But  the  same  restless  pacings  to  and  fro, 
And  the  same  vainly  throbbing  heart  was  there, 
And  the  same  bright,  calm  moon. 

And  the  calm  moonlight  seems  to  say : 
Hast  thou  then  still  the  old  unquiet  breast ', 
Which  neither  deadens  into  rest. 
Nor  ever  feels  the  fery  glow 
That  whirls  the  spirit  from  itself  c,  way, 
But  fluctuates  to  and  fro, 
Never  by  passion  quite  possessed 
And  never  quite  benumb" d  by  the  world1  s  sway?-~ 
And  I,  I  know  not  if  to  pray 
Still  to  be  what  I  am,  or  yield  and  be 
Like  all  the  other  men  I  see. 


Second  Series  01 

For  most  men  in  a  brazen  prison  live, 
Where,  in  the  sun's  hot  eye, 
With  heads  bent  o'er  their  toil,  they  languidly 
Their  lives  to  some  unmeaning  taskwork  give, 
Dreaming  of  nought  beyond  their  prison-wall. 
And  as,  year  after  year,  .  . 

Fresh  products  of  their  barren  labour  fall 
From  their  tired  hands,  and  rest 
Never  yet  comes  more  near,  , 

Gloom  settles  slowly  down  over  their  breast ; 
And  while  they  try  to  stem 
The  waves  of  mournful  thought  by  which  they 

are  prest, 

Death  in  their  prison  reaches  them, 
Unfreed,  having  seen  nothing,  still  unblest. 

And  the  rest,  a  few, 
Escape  their  prison  and  depart 
On  the  wide  ocean  of  life  anew. 
There  the  freed  prisoner,  where'er  his  heart 
Listeth,  will  sail ; 

Nor  doth  he  know  how  there  prevail, 
Despotic  on  that  sea, 
Trade-winds  which  cross  it  from  eternity. 
Awhile  he  holds  some  false  way,  undebarr'd 
By  thwarting  signs,  and  braves 
The  freshening  wind  and  blackening  waves. 
And  then  the  tempest  strikes  him  ;  and  between 
The  lightning-bursts  is  seen 
Only  a  driving  wreck, 

And  the  pale  master  on  his  spar-strewn  deck 
With  anguish'd  face  and  flying  hair 
Grasping  the  rudder  hard, 

Still  bent  to  make  some  port  he  knows  not  where, 
Still  standing  for  some  false,  impossible  shore. 
And  sterner  comes  the  roar 
Of  sea  and  wind,   and   through  the   deepening 

gloom 

Fainter  and  fainter  wreck  and  helmsman  loom, 
And  he  too  disappears,  and  comes  no  more. 

Is  there  no  life,  but  these  alone  ? 
Madman  or  slave,  must  man  be  one  ? 


92  The  Golden   Treasury 

Plainness  and  clearness  without  shadow  of  stain  \ 
Clearness  divine  ! 

Ye  heavens,  whose  pure  dark  regions  have  no  sign 
Of  languor,  though  so  calm,  and,  though  so  great, 
Are  yet  untroubled  and  unpassionate  ; 
Who,  though  so  noble,  share  in  the  world's  toil, 
And,  though  so  task'd,  keep  free  from  dust  and  soil ! 
I  will  not  say  that  your  mild  deeps  retain 
A  tinge,  it  may  be,  of  their  silent  pain 
Who  have  long'd  deeply  once,  and  long'd  in  vain — 
But  I  will  rather  say  that  you  remain 
A  world  above  man's  head,  to  let  him  see 
How  boundless  might  his  soul's  horizons  be, 
How  vast,  yet  of  what  clear  transparency  ! 
How  it  were  good  to  abide  there,  and  breathe  free ; 
How  fair  a  lot  to  fill 
Is  left  to  each  man  still ! 

M.  Arnold 


LXXVII 

THE  SILENT   VOICES 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black 
Brings  the  Dreams  about  my  bed, 
Call  me  not  so  often  back, 
Silent  Voices  of  the  dead, 
Toward  the  lowland  ways  behind  me, 
And  the  sunlight  that  is  gone  ! 
Call  me  rather,  silent  voices, 
Forward  to  the  starry  track 
Glimmering  up  the  heights  beyond  me 
On,  and  always  on  ! 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


Second  Series  93 

LXXVIII 

THE  FUTURE 

A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth. 
He  was  born  in  a  ship 
On  the  breast  of  the  river  of  Time  ; 
Brimming  with  wonder  and  joy 
He  spreads  out  his  arms  to  the  light, 
Rivets  his  gaze  on  the  banks  of  the  stream. 

As  what  he  sees  is,  so  have  his  thoughts  been* 
Whether  he  wakes, 
Where  the  snowy  mountainous  pass, 
Echoing  the  screams  of  the  eagles, 
Hems  in  its  gorges  the  bed 
Of  the  new-born  clear-flowing  stream  ; 
Whether  he  first  sees  light 
Where  the  river  in  gleaming  rings 
Sluggishly  winds  through  the  plain  ; 
Whether  in  sound  of  the  swallowing  sea — 
As  is  the  world  on  the  banks, 
So  is  the  mind  of  the  man. 

Vainly  does  each,  as  he  glides, 
Fable  and  dream 

Of  the  lands  which  the  river  of  Time 
Had  left  ere  he  woke  on  its  breast, 
Or  shall  reach  when  his  eyes  have  been  closed. 
Only  the  tract  where  he  sails 
He  wots  of ;  only  the  thoughts, 
Raised  by  the  objects  he  passes,  are  his. 

Who  can  see  the  green  earth  any  more 
As  she  was  by  the  sources  of  Time  ? 
Who  imagines  her  fields  as  they  lay 
In  the  sunshine,  unworn  by  the  plough  ? 
Who  thinks  as  they  thought, 
The  tribes  who  then  roam'd  on  her  breast, 
Her  vigorous,  primitive  sons  ? 


94  The  Golden  Treasury 

What  girl 

Now  reads  in  her  bosom  as  clear 
As  Rebekah  read,  when  she  sate 
At  eve  by  the  palm-shaded  well  ? 
Who  guards  in  her  breast 
As  deep,  as  pellucid  a  spring 
Of  feeling,  as  tranquil,  as  sure  ? 

What  bard, 

At  the  height  of  his  vision,  can  deem 
Of  God,  of  the  world,  of  the  soul, 
With  a  plainness  as  near, 
As  flashing  as  Moses  felt 
When  he  lay  in  the  night  by  his  flock 
On  the  starlit  Arabian  waste  ? 
Can  rise  and  obey 
The  beck  of  the  Spirit  like  him  ? 

This  tract  which  the  river  of  Time 
Now  flows  through  with  us,  is  the  plain. 
Gone  is  the  calm  of  its  earlier  shore. 
Border'd  by  cities  and  hoarse 
With  a  thousand  cries  is  its  stream. 
And  we  on  its  breast,  our  minds 
Are  confused  as  the  cries  which  we  hear, 
Changing  and  shot  as  the  sights  which  we  see. 

And  we  say  that  repose  has  fled 
For  ever  the  course  of  the  river  of  Time. 
That  cities  will  crowd  to  its  edge 
In  a  blacker,  incessanter  line  ; 
That  the  din  will  be  more  on  its  banks, 
Denser  the  trade  on  its  stream, 
Flatter  the  plain  where  it  flows, 
Fiercer  the  sun  overhead. 
That  never  will  those  on  its  breast 
See  an  ennobling  sight, 
Drink  of  the  feeling  of  quiet  again. 

But  what  was  before  us  we  know  not, 
And  we  know  not  what  shall  succeed. 

Haply,  the  river  of  Time — 
As  it  grows,  as  the  towns  on  its  marge 


Second  Series  95 

Fling  their  wavering  lights 
On  a  wider,  statelier  stream — 
May  acquire,  if  not  the  calm 
Of  its  early  mountainous  shore, 
Yet  a  solemn  peace  of  its  own. 

And  the  width  of  the  waters,  the  hush 
Of  the  gray  expanse  where  he  floats, 
Freshening  its  current  and  spotted  with  foam 
As  it  draws  to  the  Ocean,  may  strike 
Peace  to  the  soul  of  the  man  on  its  breast — 
As  the  pale  waste  widens  around  him, 
As  the  banks  fade  dimmer  away, 
As  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  night- wind 
Brings  up  the  stream 
Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea. 

M.  Arnold 


LXXIX 

SLEEP  AT  SEA 

Sound  the  deep  waters  : — 

Who  shall  sound  that  deep  ? — 
Too  short  the  plummet, 

And  the  watchmen  sleep. 
Some  dream  of  effort 

Up  a  toilsome  steep  ; 
Some  dream  of  pasture  grounds 

For.  harmless  sheep. 

White  shapes  flit  to  and  fro 

From  mast  to  mast ; 
They  feel  the  distant  tempest 

That  nears  them  fast : 
Great  rocks  are  straight  ahead, 

Great  shoals  not  past ; 
They  shout  to  one  another 

Upon  the  blast. 


96  The  Golden  Treasury 

Oh,  soft  the  streams  drop  music 

Between  the  hills, 
And  musical  the  birds'  nests 

Beside  those  rills ; 
The  nests  are  types  of  home 

Love-hidden  from  ills, 
The  nests  are  types  of  spirits 

Love-music  fills. 

So  dream  the  sleepers, 

Each  man  in  his  place  ; 
The  lightning  shows  the  smile 

Upon  each  face  : 
The  ship  is  driving, — driving, — 

It  drives  apace : 
And  sleepers  smile,  and  spirits 

Bewail  their  case. 

The  lightning  glares  and  reddens 

Across  the  skies ; 
It  seems  but  sunset 

To  those  sleeping  eyes. 
When  did  the  sun  go  down 

On  such  a  wise  ? 
From  such  a  sunset 

When  shall  day  arise  ? 

'  Wake,'  call  the  spirits  : 

But  to  heedless  ears : 
They  have  forgotten  sorrows 

And  hopes  and  fears  ; 
They  have  forgotten  perils 

And  smiles  and  tears  ; 
Their  dream  has  held  them  long, 

Long  years  and  years. 

'  Wake,'  call  the  spirits  again  : 

But  it  would  take 
A  louder  summons 

To  bid  them  awake. 
Some  dream  of  pleasure 

For  another's  sake ; 
Some  dream  forgetful 

Of  a  lifelong  ache. 


Second  Series  97 

One  by  one  slowly, 

Ah,  how  sad  and  slow  ! 
Wailing  and  praying 

The  spirits  rise  and  go  : 
Clear  stainless  spirits 

White,  as  white  as  snow ; 
Pale  spirits,  wailing 

For  an  overthrow. 

One  by  one  flitting, 

Like  a  mournful  bird 
Whose  song  is  tired  at  last 

For  no  mate  heard. 
The  loving  voice  is  silent, 

The  useless  word  ; 
One  by  one  flitting 

Sick  with  hope  deferr'd. 

Driving  and  driving 

The  ship  drives  amain  : 
While  swift  from  mast  to  mast 

Shapes  flit  again, 
Flit  silent  a.^  the  silence 

Where  men  lie  slain  ; 
Their  shadow  cast  upon  the  sails 

Is  like  a  stain. 

No  voice  to  call  the  sleepers, 

No  hand  to  raise  : 
They  sleep  to  death  in  dreaming 

Of  length  of  days. 
Vanity  of  vanities, 

The  Preacher  says : 
Vanity  is  the  end 

Of  all  their  ways. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


98  The  Golden  Treasury 

LXXX 
NORTHERN  FARMER 

OLD    STYLE 

Wheer  'asta    bean  saw    long  and    mea  liggin'   'ere 

aloan  ? 
Noorse  ?  thoort   nowt   o'   a   noorse  :  whoy,    Doctor's 

abean  an'  agoan  : 
Says  that  I  moant  'a  naw   moor  aale :  but  I  beant  a 

fool: 
Git  ma  my  aale,  fur  I  beant  d-gawin'  to  break  my 

rule. 

Doctors,  they  knaws  nowt,  fur  a  says  what's  nawways 

true  : 

Naw  soort  o'  koind  o'  use  to  saay  the  things  that  a  do. 
I've  'ed  my  point  o'  aale  ivry  noight  sin'  I  bean  'ere. 
An'  I've  'ed  my  quart  ivry  market  noight  for  foorty 

year. 

Parson's  a  bean  loikewoise,  an'  a  sittin'  'ere  o'  my  bed. 
*  The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  *  to  'issen,  my  friend,' 

a  said, 
An'  a  towd  ma  my  sins,  an's  toithe  were  due,  an'  I 

gied  it  in  hond  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

Larn'd  a  ma'  bea.     I  reckons  I  'annot  sa  mooch  to 

larn. 

But  a  cast  oop,  thot  a  did,  'bout  Bessy  Marris's  barne. 
Thaw  a  knaws  I  hallus  voated  wi'  Squoire  an'  choorch 

an'  staate, 
An'  i'  the  woost  o'  toimes  I  wur  niver  agin  the  raate. 

An'  I  hallus  coom'd  to  's  choorch  afoor  moy  Sally  wur 

dead, 
An'  'card  'um  a  bummin'  awaay  loike  a  buzzard-clock  2 

ower  my  'ead, 

1  ou  as  in  hour.  2  Cockchafer. 

I  For  fuller  glossary,  see  Notes.] 


Second  Series  99 

An'  I  niver  knaw'd  whot  a  mean'd  but  I  thowt  a  'ad 

summut  to  saay, 
An'  I  thowt  a  said  whot  a  owt  to  'a  said  an'  I  coom'd 

awaay. 

Bessy  Harris's  barne  !  tha  knaws  she  laaid  it  to 
mea. 

Mowt  a  bean,  mayhap,  for  she  wur  a  bad  un,  shea. 

'Siver,  I  kep  'urn,  I  kep  'urn,  my  lass,  tha  mun  under- 
stand ; 

I  done  moy  duty  boy  'um,  as  I  'a  done  boy  the  lond. 

But  Parson  a  cooms  an'  a  goas,  an'  a  says  it  easy  an' 

freea, 
'  The  amoighty's  a  taakin  o'  you  to  'issen,  my  friend,' 

says  'ea. 
I  weant  saay  men  be  loiars,  thaw  summun  said  it  in 

'aaste  : 
But  'e  reads  wonn  sarmin  a  weeak,  an'   I  'a  stubb'd 

Thurnaby  waaste. 

D'ya  moind  the  waaste,  my  lass  ?  naw,  naw,  tha  was 

not  born  then ; 

Theer  wur  a  boggle  in  it,  I  often  'card  'um  mysen  ; 
Moast  loike  a  butter-bump,1  fur  I  'card  'um  about  an' 

about, 
But  I  stubb'd  'um  oop  wi'  the  lot,  an'  raaved  an' 

rembled  'um  out. 

Reaper's  it  wur ;  fo'  they  fun  'um  theer  a-laaid  of  'is 

faace 
Down  i'   the  woild  'enemies2  afoor  I  coom'd  to  the 

plaace. 
Noaks  or  Thimbleby — toaner 3  'ed  shot  'um  as  dead 

as  a  naail. 
Noaks  wur  'ang'd  for  it  oop  at  'soize — but  git  ma  my 

aale. 

Dubbut  loook  at  the  waaste  :  theer  warn't  not  feead 

for  a  cow  ; 
Nowt  at  all  but  bracken  an'  fuzz,  an'  loook  at  it  now— 

1  Bittern.  2  Anemones.  3  One  or  other. 


ioo  The  Golden   Treasury 

Warnt  worth  nowt  a  haacre,  an'  now  theer's  lots  d 

feead, 
Fourscoor *  yows  upon  it  an'  some  on  it  down  i'  seead.2 

Nobbut  a  bit  on  it's  left,  an'  I  mean'd  to  'a  stubb'd  it 

at  fall, 
Done  it  ta-year  I  mean'd,  an'  runn'd  plow  thruff  it 

an'  all, 

If  godamoighty  an'  parson  'ud  nobbut  let  ma  aloan, 
Mea,  wi'  haate  hoonderd  haacre  o'  Squoire's,  an'  lond 

o'  my  oan. 

Do  godamoighty  knaw  what  a's  doing  a-taakin'  o'  mea  ? 
I  beant  wonn  as  saws  'ere  a  bean  an'  yonder  a  pea  ; 
An'  Squoire  'ull  be  sa  mad  an'  all — a'  dear  a'  dear  ! 
And  I  'a  managed  for  Squoire  coom  Michaelmas  thutty 
year. 

A  mowt  'a  taaen  owd  Joanes,  as  'ant  not  a  'aapoth  o' 

sense, 
Or  a  mowt  'a  taaen  young  Robins — a  niver  mended  a 

fence  : 

But  godamoighty  a  moost  taake  mea  an'  taake  ma  now 
Wi'  aaf  the  cows  to  cauve  an'  Thurnaby  hoalms  to 

plow  ! 

Loook   'ow   quoloty  smoiles  when   they  seeas   ma  a 

passin'  boy, 
Says  to  thessen  naw  doubt  '  what  a  man  a  bea  sewer- 

loy  !' 
Fur  they  knaws  what  I  bean   to  Squoire  sin  fust  a 

coom'd  to  the  'All  ; 
I  done  moy  duty  by  Squoire  an'  I  done  moy  duty  boy 

hall. 

Squoire's  i'  Lunnon,  an'  summun  I  reckons  'ull  'a  to 

wroite, 
For  whoa's  to  howd  the  lond  ater  mea  thot  muddles 

ma  quoit ; 
Sartin-sewer    I   bea,  thot  a  weant   niver  give   it  to 

Joanes, 
Naw,  nor  a  moant  to  Robins — a  niver  rembles  the 

stoans. 

1  ou  as  in  hour.  2  Clover. 


Second  Series  101 

But  summun  'ull  come  ater  mea  mayhap  wi'  's  kittle 

o'  steam 
Huzzin'  an'  maazin'  the  blessed  fealds  wi'  the  Divil's 

oan  team. 
Sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  thaw  loife  they  says  is 

sweet, 
But  sin'  I  mun  doy  I  mun  doy,  for  I  couldn  abear  to 

see  it. 

What  atta  stannin'  theer  fur,  an'  doesn  bring  ma  the 

aale? 

Doctor's  a  'toattler,  lass,  an  a's  hallus  i'  the  owd  taale  ; 
I  weant  break  rules  fur  Doctor,  a  knaws  naw  moor 

nor  a  floy ; 
Git  ma  my  aale  I  tell  tha,  an'  if  I  mun  doy  I  mun 

doy. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


LXXXI 

NORTHERN  FARMER 

NEW   STYLE 

Dosn't    thou    'ear   my  'erse's   legs,    as   they   canters 

awaay  ? 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  I  'ears  'em 

saa'y. 
Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — Sam,  thou's  an  ass  for 

thy  paains  : 
Theer's  moor  sense  i'  one  o'  'is  legs  nor  in  all  thy 

braains. 

Woa — theer's  a  craw  to   pluck  wi'  tha,  Sam  :  yon's 

parson's  'ouse — 
Dosn't  thou  knaw  that  a  man  mun  be  eather  a  man  or 

a  mouse  ? 
Time  to  think  on  it  then  ;    for  thou'll  be  twenty  to 

weeak.1 
Proputty,  proputty — woa  then  woa — let  ma  'ear  mysen 

speak. 

1  This  week. 


102  The    Golden    Treasury 

Me  an'  thy  muther,  Sammy,  'as  bean  a-talkin'  o'  thee*, 

Thou's  bean  talkin'  to  muther,  an'  she  bean  a  tellin'  it 
me. 

Thou'll  not  marry  for  munny — thou's  sweet  upo'  par- 
son's lass — 

Noa — thou'll  marry  for  luvv — an'  we  boath  on  us 
thinks  tha  an  ass. 

Seea'd  her  todaay  goa  by — Saaint's  daay — they  was 

ringing  the  bells. 

She's  a  beauty  thou  thinks — an'  soa  is  scoors  o'  gells, 
Them   as   'as   munny  an'  all — wot's  a  beauty? — the 

flower  as  blaws. 
But  proputty,  proputty  sticks,  an'  proputty,  proputty 

graws. 

Do'ant  be  stunt : *  taake  time  :  I  knaws  what  maakes 

tha  sa  mad. 
Warn't  I  craazed  fur  the  lasses  mysen  when  I  wur  a 

lad?  ' 
But  I  knaw'd  a  Quaaker  feller  as  often  'as  towd  ma 

this: 
'  Doant  thou  marry  for  munny,  but  goa  wheer  munny 

is!' 

An'  I  went  wheer  munny  war :  an'  thy  muther  coom 

to  'and, 

Wi'  lots  o'  munny  laaid  by,  an'  a  nicetish  bit  o'  land. 
Maaybe  she  warn't  a  beauty  : — I  niver  giv  it  a  thowt — 
But  warn't  she  as  good  to  cuddle  an'  kiss  as  a  lass  as 

'ant  nowt  ? 

Parson's  lass  'ant  nowt,  an'  she  weant  'a  nowt  when 

'e's  dead, 
Mun  be  a  guvness,  lad,  or  summut,  and  addle2  her 

bread ; 
Why  ?   fur  'e's  nobbut  a  curate,  an'  weant  niver  git 

hissen  clear, 
An'  'e  maade  the  bed  as  'e  ligs  on  afoor  'e  coom'd  to 

the  shere. 

1  Obstinate.  2  Earn. 


Second  Series  103 

An  thin  'e  coom'd  to  the  parish  wi'  lots  oj  Varsity  debt, 
Stock  to  his  taail  they  did,  an'  'e  'ant  got  shut  on  'em 

yet, 
An'  'e  ligs  on  'is  back  i'  the  grip,  wi'  no'an  to  lend  'im 

a  shuvv, 
Woorse   nor  a  far- welter  Jd l  yowe  :    fur,   Sammy,   'e 

married  fur  luvv. 

Luvv?   what's  luvv?   thou  can  luvv  thy  lass  r.n'  3er 

munny  too, 

Maakin'  'em  goa  togither  as  they've  good  right  to  do. 
Could'n  I  luvv  thy  inuther  by  cause  o'  'er  munny  laaid 

by? 
Naay — fur  I  luvv'd  'er  a  vast  sight  moor  fur  it :  reason 

why, 

Ay  an'  thy  muther  says  thou  wants  to  marry  the  lass, 
Cooms  of  a  gentleman   burn :  an'  we   boath  on   us 

thinks  tha  an  ass. 
Woa  then,  proputty,  wiltha  ? — an  ass  as  near  as  mays 

nowt 2 — 
Woa  then,   wiltha  ?  dangtha  ! — the  bees  is  as  fell  as 

owt.3 

Break  me  a  bit  o'  the  esh  for  his  'ead,  lad,  out  o'  the 

fence  ! 
Gentleman  burn  !  what's  gentleman  burn  ?  is  it  shillins 

an'  pence? 
Proputty,  proputty's  ivrything  'ere,  an',  Sammy,  I'm 

blest 
If  it  isn't  the  saame  oop  yonder,  fur  them  as  'as  it's  the 

best. 

Tis'n  them  as  'as  munny  as  breaks  into  'ouses  an'  steals, 

Them  as  'as  coats  to  their  backs  an'  taakes  their  regu- 
lar meals. 

Noa,  but  it's  them  as  niver  knaws  wheer  a  meal's  to 
be  'ad. 

Taake  my  word  for  it,  Sammy,  the  poor  in  a  loomp  is 
bad. 

1   Or  fow-welter'd, — said  of  a  sheep  lying  on  its  back. 
2  Makes  nothing.  3  The  flies  are  as  fierce  as  anything 


IO4  The  Golden  Treasury 

Them  or  thir  feythers,  tha  sees,  mun  'a  beUn  a  laazy 

lot, 
Fur  work  mun  'a  gone  to  the  gittin'  whiniver  munny 

was  got. 

Feyther  'ad  ammost  nowt ;  leastways  'is  munny  was  'id. 
But  'e  tued  an'  moil'd  'issen  dead,  an  'e  died  a  good 

un,  'e  did. 

Loook  thou  theer  wheer  Wrigglesby  beck  cooms  out 

by  the  'ill ! 

Feyther  run  oop  to  the  farm,  an'  I  runs  oop  to  the  mill; 
An'  I'll  run  oop  to  the  brig,  an'  that  thou'll  live  to  see  ; 
And  if  thou  marries  a  good  un  I'll  leave  the  land  to 

thee. 

Thim's   my   noations,  Sammy,  wheerby  I   means   to 

stick ; 
But  if  thou  marries  a  bad  un,  I'll  leave  the  land  to 

Dick.— 
Coom  oop,  proputty,  proputty — that's  what  I  'ears  'im 

saay — 

Proputty,  proputty,  proputty — canter  an'  canter  awaay. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


LXXXII 

ST.  JOHN  BAPTIST 

I  think  he  had  not  heard  of  the  far  towns ; 
Nor  of  the  deeds  of  men,  nor  of  kings'  crowns ; 

Before  the  thought  of  God  took  hold  of  him, 
As  he  was  sitting  dreaming  in  the  calm 

Of  one  first  noon,  upon  the  desert's  rim, 
Beneath  the  tall  fair  shadows  of  the  palm, 
All  overcome  with  some  strange  inward  balm. 

He  number'd  not  the  changes  of  the  year, 
The  days,  the  nights,  and  he  forgot  all  fear 

Of  death  :  each  day  he  thought  there  should  have 
been 


Second  Series  105 

A  shining  ladder  set  for  him  to  climb 

Athwart  some  opening  in  the  heavens,  e'en 
To  God's  eternity,  and  see,  sublime — 
His  face  whose  shadow  passing  fills  all  time. 

But  he  walk'd  through  the  ancient  wilderness. 
O,  there  the  prints  of  feet  were  numberless 

And  holy  all*  about  him  !     And  quite  plain 
He  saw  each  spot  an  angel  silvershod 

Had  lit  upon  ;  where  Jacob  too  had  lain 
The  place  seem'd  fresh, — and,  bright  and   lately 

trod, 
A  long  track  show'd  where  Enoch  walk'd  with  God. 

And  often,  while  the  sacred  darkness  trail'd 
Along  the  mountains  smitten  and  unveil'd 

By  rending  lightnings, — over  all  the  noise 
Of  thunders  and  the  earth  that  quaked  and  bow'd 

From  its  foundations — he  could  hear  the  voice 
Of  great  Elias  prophesying  loud 
To  Him  whose  face  was  cover'd  by  a  cloud. 

A.  O'Shaughnessy 


LXXXIII 

Heaven  overarches  earth  and  sea, 

Earth-sadness  and  sea-bitterness. 
Heaven  overarches  you  and  me  : 
A  little  while  and  we  shall  be — 
Please  God — where  there  is  no  more  sea 
Nor  barren  wilderness. 

Heaven  overarches  you  and  me, 

And  all  earth's  gardens  and  her  graves. 

Look  up  with  me,  until  we  see 

The  day  break  and  the  shadows  flee. 

What  though  to-night  wrecks  you  and  me 
If  so  to-morrow  saves  ? 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


io6  The  Golden  Treasury 

LXXXIV 

THE  TRANCE  OF  TIME 

In  childhood,  when  with  eager  eyes 
The  season-measured  years  I  view'd, 
All,  garb'd  in  fairy  guise; 
Pledged  constancy  of  good. 

Spring  sang  of  heaven  ;  the  summer  flowers 
Bade  me  gaze  on,  and  did  not  fade  ; 
Even  suns  o'er  autumn's  bowers 
Heard  my  strong  wish,  and  stay'd. 

They  came  and  went,  the  short-lived  four  ; 
Yet,  as  their  varying  dance  they  wove, 
To  my  young  heart  each  bore 
Its  own  sure  claim  of  love. 

Far  different  now  ; — the  whirling  year 
Vainly  my  dizzy  eyes  pursue  ; 
And  its  fair  tints  appear 
All  blent  in  one  dusk  hue. 

Then  what  this  world  to  thee,  my  heart  ? 
Its  gifts  nor  feed  thee  nor  can  bless. 
Thou  hast  no  owner's  part 
In  all  its  fleetingness. 

J.  H.  Card.  Newman 


LXXXV 

OUR  DEAD 

Sometimes  I  think  that  those  we've  lost, 

Safe  lying  on  th'  Eternal  Breast, 
Can  hear  no  sounds  from  earth  that  mar 

The  perfect  sweetness  of  their  rest  ; 
But  when  one  thought  of  holy  love 

Is  stirr'd  in  hearts  they  love  below, 
Through  some  fine  waves  of  ambient  air, 

They  feel,  they  see  it,  and  they  know. 


Second  Series  IO 

As  rays  unseen — abysmal  light — 

Are  caught  by  films  of  silver  salt 
When  these  are  set  to  watch  by  night 

The  wheelings  of  the  starry  vault, — 
So  may  the. souls  that  live  and  dwell 

In  one  great  soul,  the  Fount  of  all, 
Feel  faintest  tremblings  in  the  sphere 

On  which  such  footsteps  gently  fall. 
No  evil  seen,  no  murmurs  heard, 

No  fear  of  sin,  or  coming  loss, 
They  wait  in  light,  imperfect  yet, 

The  final  triumphs  of  the  Cross. 

Duke  of  Argyll 


LXXXVI 

'  RETRO  ME,  SATHANAT 

Get  thee  behind  me.     Even  as,  heavy-curl'd, 
Stooping  against  the  wind,  a  charioteer 
Is  snatch'd  from  out  his  chariot  by  the  hair, 
So  shall  Time  be  ;  and  as  the  void  car,  hurl'd 
Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the  world  : 
Yea  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 
It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  anywhere. 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.     Oft  unfurl'd, 
Thy  perilous  wings  can  beat  and  break  like  lath 
Much  mightiness  of  men  to  win  thee  praise. 
Leave  these  weak  feet  to  tread  in  narrow  ways. 
Thou  still,  upon  the  broad  vine-shelter'd  path, 
Mayst  wait  the  turning  of  the  phials  of  wrath 
For  certain  years,  for  certain  months  and  days. 

D.  G.  Rossetti 


lo8  The  Golden  Treasury 

LXXXVII 
UP-HILL 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way  ? 

Yes,  to  the  very  end. 
Will  the  day's  journey  take  "the  whole  long  day  ? 

From  morn  to  night,  my  friend. 

But  is  there  for  the  night  a  resting-place  ? 

A  roof  for  when  the  slow  dark  hours  begin. 
May  not  the  darkness  hide  it  from  my  face  ? 

You  cannot  miss  that  inn. 

Shall  I  meet  other  wayfarers  at  night  ? 

Those  who  have  gone  before. 
Then  must  I  knock,  or  call  when  just  in  sight  ? 

They  will  not  keep  you  standing  at  that  door. 

Shall  I  find  comfort,  travel-sore  and  weak  ? 

Of  labour  you  shall  find  the  sum. 
Will  there  be  beds  for  me  and  all  who  seek  ? 

Yea,  beds  for  all  who  come. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


LXXXVIII 

MOTHER  COUNTRY 

Oh  what  is  that  country 

And  where  can  it  be, 
Not  mine  own  country, 

But  dearer  far  to  me  ? 
Yet  mine  own  country, 

If  I  one  day  may  see 
Its  spices  and  cedars, 

Its  gold  and  ivory. 

Oh  what  is  a  king  here, 
Or  what  is  a  boor  ? 

Here  all  starve  together 
All  dwarf 'd  and  poor  ; 


Second  Series  109 

Here  Death's  hand  knocketh 

At  door  after  door, 
He  thins  the  dancers 

From  the  festal  floor. 

Oh  what  is  a  handmaid, 

Or  what  is  a  queen  ? 
All  must  lie  down  together 

Where  the  turf  is  green, 
The  foulest  face  hidden, 

The  fairest  not  seen  ; 
Gone  as  if  never 

They  had  breathed  or  been. 

Gone  from  sweet  sunshine 

Underneath  the  sod, 
Turn'd  from  warm  flesh  and  blood 
.  To  senseless  clod, 
Gone  as  if  never 

They  had  toil'd  or  trod, 
Gone  out  of  sight  of  all 

Except  our  God. 

And  if  that  life  is  life, 

This  is  but  a  breath, 
The  passage  of  a  dream 

And  the  shadow  of  death ; 
But  a  vain  shadow 

If  one  considereth ; 
Vanity  of  vanities, 

As  the  Preacher  saith. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


LXXXIX 

ST.    AGNES'   EVE 

Deep  on  the  convent-roof  the  snows 
Are  sparkling  to  the  moon  : 

My  breath  to  heaven  like  vapour  goes : 
May  my  soul  follow  soon  ! 


The  Golden  Treasury 

The  shadows  of  the  convent-towers 

Slant  down  the  snowy  sward, 
Still  creeping  with  the  creeping  hours 

That  lead  me  to  my  Lord  : 
Make  Thou  my  spirit  pure  and  clear 

As  are  the  frosty  skies, 
Or  this  first  snowdrop  of  tl  e  year 

That  in  my  bosom  lies. 

As  these  white  robes  are  soil'd  and  dark 

To  yonder  shining  ground  ; 
As  this  pale  taper's  earthly  spark, 

To  yonder  argent  round  ; 
So  shows  my  soul  before  the  Lamb, 

My  spirit  before  Thee  ; 
So  in  mine  earthly  house  I  am, 

To  that  I  hope  to  be. 
Break  up  the  heavens,  O  Lord  !  and  far, 

Thro'  all  yon  starlight  keen, 
Draw  me,  Thy  bride,  a  glittering  star, 

In  raiment  white  and  clean. 

He  lifts  me  to  the  golden  doors ; 

The  flashes  come  and  go  ; 
All  heaven  bursts  her  starry  floors, 

And  strows  her  lights  below, 
And  deepens  on  and  up  !  the  gates 

Roll  back,  and  far  within 
For  me  the  Heavenly  Bridegroom  waits, 

To  make  me  pure  of  sin. 
The  sabbaths  of  Eternity, 

One  sabbath  deep  and  wide — 
A  light  upon  the  shining  sea — 

The  Bridegroom  with  his  bride  ! 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


Secona  Series  ill 

xc 
THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL 

The  blessed  damozel  lean'd  out 

From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  still'd  at  even  ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 

No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 
But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 

For  service  meetly  worn  ; 
Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 

Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseem'd  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers  ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  lean'd  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     ... 
Nothing  :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace. ) 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 
Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 


The    Golden    Treasury 

Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  ^his  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

In  joy  no  sorrow  claims, 
Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  rapturous  new  names ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bow'd  herself  and  stoop'd 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  lean'd  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fix'd  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curl'd  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet  !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearken'd  ?    When  those  bells 

Possess'd  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 

*  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,'  she  said. 

*  Have  I  not  pray'd  in  Heaven  ?— on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 


Second  Series  113 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

1  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
We  will  step  down  as  to  a  stream, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

*  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirr'd  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God  ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

*  We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  his  Name  audibly. 

'  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hush'd  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know.' 

(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.  But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?) 

*  We  two,'  she  said,  '  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 


114  The  Golden  Treasury 

'  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

'  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb  ; 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abash' d  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

*  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumber'd  heads 
Bow'd  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

'  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 
Thus  much  for  him  and  me  : — 

Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 
With  Love,  only  to  be, 

As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 
Together,  I  and  he.' 

She  gazed  and  listen'd  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

'  All  this  is  when  he  comes. '     She  ceased. 
The  light  thrill' d  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  pray'd,  and  she  smiled. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 
Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 

And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 
The  golden  barriers, 

And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears. ) 

D.  G.  Rossetti 


Second  Series  115 


xci 
SONG  OF  AN  ANGEL 

At  noon  a  shower  had  fallen,  and  the  clime 
Breathed  sweetly,  and  upon  a  cloud  there  lay 
One  more  sublime  in  beauty  than  the  Day, 

Or  all  the  Sons  of  Time  ; 

A  gold  harp  had  he,  and  was  singing  there 
Songs  that  I  yearn'd  to  hear ;  a  glory  shone 
Of  rosy  twilights  on  his  cheeks — a  zone 

Of  amaranth  on  his  hair. 

He  sang  of  joys  to  which  the  earthly  heart 
Hath  never  beat ;  he  sang  of  deathless  Youth, 
And  by  the  throne  of  Love,  Beauty  and  Truth 

Meeting,  no  more  to  part ; 

He  sang  lost  Hope,  faint  Faith,  and  vain  Desire 
Crown'd   there ;   great    works,   that   on   the   earth 

began, 
Accomplished  ;  towers  impregnable  to  man 

Scaled  with  the  speed  of  fire  ; 

Of  Power,  and  Life,  and  winged  Victory 

He  sang — of  bridges  strown  'twixt  star  and  star — 
And  hosts  all  arm'd  in  light  for  bloodless  war 

Pass,  and  repass  on  high  ; 

Lo  !  in  the  pauses  of  his  jubilant  voice 

He  leans  to  listen  :  answers  from  the  spheres, 
And  mighty  paeans  thundering  he  hears 

Down  the  empyreal  skies  : 

Then  suddenly  he  ceased — and  seem'd  to  rest 
His  godly-fashion' d  arm  upon  a  slope 
Of  that  fair  cloud,  and  with  soft  eyes  of  hope 

He  pointed  towards  the  West  ; 

And  shed  on  me  a  smile  of  beams,  that  told 
Of  a  bright  World  beyond  the  thunder-piles, 
With  blessed  fields,  and  hills,  and  happy  isles, 

And  citadels  of  gold. 

F.  Tennyson 


Il6  ,       The  Golden  Treasury 

XCII 
4   CHRISTMAS  HYMN,  1837 

It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night ! — 

Seven  hundred  years  and  fifty-three 
Had  Rome  been  growing  up  to  might, 

And  now  was  Queen  of  land  and  sea  ! 
No  sound  was  heard  of  clashing  wars  ; 

Peace  brooded  o'er  the  hush'd  domain ; 
Apollo,  Pallas,  Jove  and  Mars, 

Held  undisturb'd  their  ancient  reign, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 

'Twas  in  the  calm  and  silent  night ! 

The  senator  of  haughty  Rome 
Impatient  urged  his  chariot's  flight, 

From  lordly  revel  rolling  home  ! 
Triumphal  arches  gleaming  swell 

His  breast  with  thoughts  of  boundless  sway ; 
What  reck'd  the  Roman  what  befell 

A  paltry  province  far  away, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 

Within  that  province  far  away 

Went  plodding  home  a  weary  boor : 
A  streak  of  light  before  him  lay, 

Fall'n  through  a  half-shut  stable  door 
Across  his  path.     He  pass'd — for  nought 

Told  what  was  going  on  within  ; 
How  keen  the  stars  !  his  only  thought ; 

The  air  how  calm  and  cold  and  thin, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 

O  strange  indifference  ! — low  and  high 
Drowsed  over  common  joys  and  cares  : 

The  earth  was  still — but  knew  not  why; 
The  world  was  listening — unawares  ; 


Second  Series  117 

How  calm  a  moment  may  precede 

One  that  shall  thrill  the  world  for  ever  ! 
To  that  still  moment  none  would  heed, 
Man's  doom  was  link'd  no  more  to  sever 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago  ! 

It  is  the  calm  and  solemn  night ! 

A  thousand  bells  ring  out,  and  throw 
Their  joyous  peals  abroad,  and  smite 

The  darkness,  charm'd  and  holy  now ! 
The  night  that  erst  no  name  had  worn, 

To  it  a  happy  name  is  given  ; 
For  in  that  stable  lay  new-born 

The  peaceful  Prince  of  Earth  and  Heaven, 
In  the  solemn  midnight 
Centuries  ago. 

.  A.  Domett 


XCIII 

THE  LOSS  OF  THE  '  BIRKENHEAD '  : 

SUPPOSED   TO   BE   TOLD   BY   A   SOLDIER   WHO 
SURVIVED 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson  sun  went  down ; 
The  deep  sea  roll'd  around  in  dark  repose  ; 
When,  like  the  wild  shriek  from  some  captured  town, 
A  cry  of  women  rose. 

The  stout  ship  Birkenhead  lay  hard  and  fast, 

Caught  without  hope  upon  a  hidden  rock  ; 

Her  timbers  thrill'd  as  nerves,   when  through  them 

pass'd 
The  spirit  of  that  shock. 

And  ever  like  base  cowards,  who  leave  their  ranks 
In  danger's  hour,  before  the  rush  of  steel, 
Drifted  away  disorderly  the  planks 
From  underneath  her  keel. 


Il8  The  Golden  Treasury 

So  calm  the  air,  so  calm  and  still  the  flood, 
That  low  down  in  its  blue  translucent  glass 
We  saw  the  great  fierce  fish,  that  thirst  for  blood, 
Pass  slowly,  then  repass. 

They  tarried,  the  waves  tarried,  for  their  prey  ! 
The  sea  turn'd  one  clear  smile  !     Like  things  asleep 
Those  dark  shapes  in  the  azure  silence  lay, 
As  quiet  as  the  deep. 

Then  amidst  oath,  and  prayer,  and  rush,  and  wreck, 
Faint  screams,  faint  questions  waiting  no  reply, 
Our  Colonel  gave  the  word,  and  on  the  deck 
Form'd  us  in  line  to  die. 

To  die  ! — 'twas  hard,  whilst  the  sleek  ocean  glow'd 
Beneath  a  sky  as  fair  as  summer  flowers  : — 
All  to  the  boats  !  cried  one  : — he  was,  thank  God, 
No  officer  of  ours  ! 

Our  English  hearts  beat  true  : — we  would  not  stir  : 
That  base  appeal  we  heard,  but  heeded  not : 
On  land,  on  sea,  we  had  our  Colours,  sir, 
To  keep  without  a  spot  ! 

They  shall  not  say  in  England,  that  we  fought 
With  shameful  strength,  urihonour'd  life  to  seek ; 
Into  mean  safety,  mean  deserters,  brought 
By  trampling  down  the  weak. 

So  we  made  women  with  their  children  go, 
The  oars  ply  back  again,  and  yet  again  ; 
Whilst,  inch  by  inch,  the  drowning  ship  sank  low, 
Still  under  steadfast  men. 

— What  follows,  why  recall  ? — The  brave  who  died. 
Died  without  flinching  in  the  bloody  surf, 
They  sleep  as  well  beneath  that  purple  tide, 
As  others  under  turf : — 

They  sleep  as  well  !  and,  roused  from  their  wild  grave, 
Wearing  their  wounds  like  stars,  shall  rise  again, 
Joint-heirs  with  Christ,  because  they  bled  to  save 
His  weak  ones,  not  in  vain. 

F.  H.  Doyle 


Second  Series  119 

xciv 
THE  BRITISH  SOLDIER   IN  CHINA 

Last  night  among  his  fellow-roughs 

He  jested,  quaff'd  and  swore  : 
A  drunken  private  of  the  Buffs, 

Who  never  look'd  before. 
To-day,  beneath  the  foeman's  frown, 

He  stands  in  Elgin's  place, 
Ambassador  from  Britain's  crown, 

And  type  of  all  her  race. 

Poor,  reckless,  rude,  low-born,  untaught, 

Bewilder'd,  and  alone, 
A  heart,  with  English  instinct  fraught, 

He  yet  can  call  his  own. 
Ay  !  tear  his  body  limb  from  limb  ; 

Bring  cord,  or  axe,  or  flame  ! — 
He  only  knows,  that  not  through  him 

Shall  England  come  to  shame. 

Far  Kentish  hopfields  round  him  seem'd 

Like  dreams  to  come  and  go  ; 
Bright  leagues  of  cherry-blossom  gleam'd, 

One  sheet  of  living  snow  : 
The  smoke  above  his  father's  door 

In  gray  soft  eddyings  hung  : — 
Must  he  then  watch  it  rise  no  more, 

Doom'd  by  himself,  so  young  ? 

Yes,  Honour  calls  ! — with  strength  like  steel 

He  put  the  vision  by  : 
Let  dusky  Indians  whine  and  kneel  ; 

An  English  lad  must  die  ! 
And  thus,  with  eyes  that  would  not  shrink, 

With  knee  to  man  unbent, 
Unfaltering  on  its  dreadful  brink 

To  his  red  grave  he  went. 

— Vain,  mightiest  fleets  of  iron  framed  ; 

Vain,  those  all-shattering  guns  ; 
Unless  proud  England  keep,  untamed, 

The  strong  heart  of  her  sons  ! 


120  The  Golden  Treasury 

So,  let  his  name  through  Europe  ring — ' 

A  man  of  mean  estate 
Who  died,  as  firm  as  Sparta's  king, 

Because  his  soul  was  great. 

F.  H.  Doyle 


xcv 
THE  SANDS  OF  DEE 

*  O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, — 

And  call  the  cattle  home, 

And  call  the  cattle  home 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee  ! ' 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dank  wi'  foam, 

And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 

And  o'er  and  o'er  the  sand, 

And  round  and  round  the  sand, 

As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 
The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land — 

And  never  home  came  she. 

'  Oh,  is  it  weed  or  fish  or  floating  hair — 

A  tress  o'  golden  hair, 

O'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 

Above  the  nets,  at  sea? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair 

Across  the  stakes  on  Dee.' 

They  row'd  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 

The  cruel  crawling  foam, 

The  cruel  hungry  foam, 

To  her  grave  beside  the  sea  : 
But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 

Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

C.  Kingslcy 


Second  Series  121 

XCVI 

LOST  ON  SCHIHALLION 

Shepherd 

Oh  wherefore  cam  ye  here,  Ailie? 

What  has  brocht  you  here  ? 
Late  and  lane  on  this  bleak  muir  and  eerie, 

A  wild  place  this  to  be 

For  a  body  frail  as  ye, 
Wi'  the  nicht  and  yon  storm-clouds  sae  near  ye. 

Ailie 

Oh  dinna  drive  me  back, 

I  canna  leave  my  track, 
Though  nicht  and  the  tempest  should  close  o'er  me. 

The  warld  I've  left  behind, 

And  there's  nocht  I  care  to  find 
Save  Schihallion  and  high  heaven  that  are  afore  me. 

Shepherd 

Oh  speak  nae  word  o'  driving, 

But  wherefore  art  thou  striving 
For  the  thing  that  canna  be,  puir  Ailie  ? 

Ye  had  better  far  return, 

Where  the  peat-fires  bienly  burn, 
And  your  friends  wait  ye  down  at  Bohalie. 

Ailie 

The  warld  below  is  cauld  and  bare, 

Up  vender's  the  place  for  prayer ; 
There  the  vision  on  my  soul  will  break  clearer, 

My  friends  will  little  miss  me, 

And  there's  only  One  can  bless  me, 
To  Him  on  the  hill-top  I'll  be  nearer. 

Shepherd 

Schihallion's  sides  sae  solid  and  steep, 
And  his  snow-drifts  heap  on  heap, 
What  mortal  would  dream  the  nicht  o'  scaling  ? 


122  The  Golden  Treasury 

Gin  the  heart  pray  below, 
From  nae  mountain-top  will  go 
Your  prayer  to  heaven  with  cry  more  prevailing. 

Ailie 

Weak  am  I  and  frail,  I  ken, 

But  there's  might  that's  not  of  men 
To  bear  me  up — sae  na  mair  entreat  me  ; 

Be  the  snow-drifts  ne'er  sae  deep, 

I  have  got  a  tryst  to  keep 
Wi'  the  angels  that  up  yonder  wait  to  meet  me. 

***** 

The  Shepherd  home  is  gone, 

And  she  went  on  alone  ; 
Night  cam,  but  she  cam  not  to  Bohalie ; 

They  socht  her  west  and  east 

Neist  day  and  then  the  neist 
On  Schihallion's  head  they  found  puir  Ailie. 

Stiff  with  ice  her  limbs  and  hair, 

And  her  hands  fast  closed  in  prayer, 
And  her  white  face  to  heaven  meekly  turning  ; 

Down  they  bore  her  to  her  grave, 

And  they  knew  her  soul  was  safe 
In  the  home  for  which  sae  lang  she  had  been  yearning. 

/.  C.  Shairp 


XCVII 

THE  BALLAD  OF  KEITH  OF  RAVELSTON 

The  murmur  of  the  mourning  ghost 
That  keeps  the  shadowy  kine  ; — 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  merry  path  that  leads 
Down  the  golden  morning  hill 

And  through  the  silver  meads ; 


Second  Series  123 

Ravelston,  Ravelston, 

The  stile  beneath  the  tree, 
The  maid  that  kept  her  mother's  kine, 

The  song  that  sang  she  ! 

She  sang  her  song,  she  kept  her  kine, 

She  sat  beneath  the  thorn, 
When  Andrew  Keith  of  Ravelston 

Rode  thro'  the  Monday  morn. 

His  henchmen  sing,  his  hawk-bells  ring, 

His  belted  jewels  shine  ! — - 
Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 

The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

Year  after  year,  where  Andrew  came, 
Comes  evening  down  the  glade  ; 

And  still  there  sits  a  moonshine  ghost 
Where  sat  the  sunshine  maid. 

Her  misty  hair  is  faint  and  fair, 
She  keeps  the  shadowy  kine  ; — 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  stile, 

The  stile  is  lone  and  cold, 
The  burnie  that  goes  babbling  by 

Says  nought  that  can  be  told. 

Yet,  stranger  !  here,  from  year  to  year, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; — 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

She  makes  her  immemorial  moan, 
She  keeps  her  shadowy  kine  ; — 

Oh,  Keith  of  Ravelston, 
The  sorrows  of  thy  line  ! 

S.  Dobell 


124  The  Golden   Treasury 


MARY  QUEEN  OF  SCOTS 

When  the  young  hand  of  Darnley  lock'd  in  hers 
Had  knit  her  to  her  northern  doom — amid 
The  spousal  pomp  of  flags  and  trumpeters, 
Her  fate  look'd  forth  and  was  no  longer  hid  ; 
A  jealous  brain  beneath  a  southern  crown 
Wrought  spells  upon  her ;  from  afar  she  felt 
The  waxen  image  of  her  fortunes  melt 
Beneath  the  Tudor's  eye,  while  the  grim  frown 
Of  her  own  lords  o'ermaster'd  her  sweet  smiles — 
And  nipt  her  growing  gladness,  till  she  mourn'd, 
And  sank,  at  last,  beneath  their  cruel  wiles ; 
But,  ever  since,  all  generous  hearts  have  burn'd 
To  clear  her  fame,  yea,  very  babes  have  yearn'd 
Over  this  saddest  story  of  the  isles. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 

xcix 
THE  FORSAKEN  MERMAN 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away  ; 
Down  and  away  below  ! 
Now  my  brothers  call  from  the  bay, 
Now  the  great  winds  shoreward  blow, 
Now  the  salt  tides  seaward  flow  ; 
Now  the  wild  white  horses  play, 
Champ  and  chafe  and  toss  in  the  spray. 
Children  dear,  let  us  away  ! 
This  way,  this  way  ! 

Call  her  once  before  you  go — 
Call  once  yet  ! 
In  a  voice  that  she  will  know  : 


'  Margaret  !  Margaret  ! ' 
Children's  voices  should  be  dear 
(Call  once  more)  to  a  mother's  ear ; 
Children's  voices,  wild  with  pain — 
Surely  she  will  come  again  ! 
Call  her  once  and  come  away ; 


Second  Series  125 

This  way,  this  way  ! 
'  Mother  dear,  we  cannot  stay  ! 
The  wild  white  horses  foam  and  fret.* 
Margaret !  Margaret ! 

Come,  dear  children,  come  away  down ; 
Call  no  more  ! 

One  last  look  at  the  white-wall'd  town, 
And  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  shore ; 
Then  come  down  ! 

She  will  not  come  though  you  call  all  day ; 
Come  away,  come  away  ! 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
We  heard  the  sweet  bells  over  the  bay  ?     v 
In  the  caverns  where  we  lay, 
Through  the  surf  and  through  the  swell, 
The  far-off  sound  of  a  silver  bell  ? 
Sand-strewn  caverns,  cool  and  deep, 
Where  the  winds  are  all  asleep  ; 
Where  the  spent  lights  quiver  and  gleam, 
Where  the  salt  weed  sways  in  the  stream, 
Where  the  sea-beasts,  ranged  all  round, 
Feed  in  the  ooze  o^"  their  pasture-ground  \ 
Where  the  sea-snakes  coil  and  twine, 
Dry  their  mail  and  bask  in  the  brine ; 
Where  great  whales  come  sailing  by, 
Sail  and  sail,  with  unshut  eye, 
Round  the  world  for  ever  and  aye  ? 
When  did  music  come  this  way  ? 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday 
(Call  yet  once)  that  she  went  away? 
Once  she  sate  with  you  and  me, 
On  a  red  gold  throne  in  the  heart  of  the  sea, 
And  the  youngest  sate  on  her  knee. 
She  comb'd  its  bright  hair,  and  she  tended  it  well, 
When  down  swung  the  sound  of  a  far-off  bell, 
She  sigh'd,  she  look'd  up  through  the  clear  green  sea; 
She  said  :   '  I  must  go,  for  my  kinsfolk  pray 
In  the  little  gray  church  on  the  shore  to-day. 
'Twill  be  Easter-time  in  the  world — ah  me  ! 
And  I  lose  my  poor  soul,  Merman  !  here  with  thee.' 


126  The  Golden  Treasury 

I  said  :   '  Go  up,  dear  heart,  through  the  waves  ; 
Say  thy   prayer,   and    come   back  to   the   kind    sea 

caves ! ' 

She  smiled,  she  went  up  through  the  surf  in  the  bay. 
Children  dear,  was  it  yesterday  ? 

Children  dear,  were  we  long  alone  ? 

*  The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan  ;, 
Long  prayers,'  I  said,  'in  the  world  they  say  ; 
Come  ! '  I  said  ;  and  we  rose  through  the  surf  in  the 

bay. 

We  went  up  the  beach,  by  the  sandy  down 
Where    the    sea-stocks    bloom,    to   the   white-wall'd 

town  ; 
Through   the   narrow    paved   streets,  where   all   was 

still, 

To  the  little  gray  church  on  the  windy  hill. 
From  the  church  came   a  murmur  of  folk  at  their 

prayers, 

But  we  stood  without  in  the  cold  blowing  airs. 
We  climb'd  on  the  graves,  on  the  stones  worn  with 

rains, 
And  we  gazed  up  the  aisle  through  the  small  leaded 

panes. 
She  sate  by  the  pillar ;  we  saw  her  clear  : 

*  Margaret,  hist  !  come  quick,  we  are  here  ! 
Dear  heart,'  I  said,  '  we  are  long  alone  ; 
The  sea  grows  stormy,  the  little  ones  moan.' 
But,  ah,  she  gave  me  never  a  look, 

For  her  eyes  were  seal'd  to  the  holy  book  ! 
Loud  prays  the  priest ;  shut  stands  the  door. 
Come  away,  children,  call  no  more  ! 
Come  away,  come  down,  call  no  more  ! 

Down,  down,  down  ! 
Down  to  the  .depths  of  the  sea  ! 
She  sits  at  her  wheel  in  the  humming  town, 
Singing  most  joyfully. 
Hark  what  she  sings  :   '  O  joy,  O  joy, 
For  the  humming  street,  and  the  child  with  its  toy  ! 
For  the  priest,  and  the  bell,  and  the  holy  well ; 
For  the  wheel  where  I  spun, 
And  the  blessed  light  of  the  sun  ! ' 


Second  Series  127 

And  so  she  sings  her  fill, 

Singing  most  joyfully, 

Till  the  spindle  drops  from  her  hand, 

And  the  whizzing  wheel  stands  still. 

She  steals  to  the  window,  and  looks  at  the  sand, 

And  over  the  sand  at  the  sea ; 

And  her  eyes  are  set  in  a  stare  ; 

And  anon  there  breaks  a  sigh, 

And  anon  there  drops  a  tear, 

From  a  sorrow-clouded  eye, 

And  a  heart  sorrow-laden, 

A  long,  long  sigh  ; 

For  the  cold  strange  eyes  of  a  little  Mermaiden 

And  the  gleam  of  her  golden  hair. 


Come  away,  away,  children ; 
Come,  children,  come  down  ! 
The  hoarse  wind  blows  coldly ; 
Lights  shine  in  the  town. 
She  will  start  from  her  slumber 
When  gusts  shake  the  door  ; 
She  vvill  hear  the  winds  howling, 
Will  hear  the  waves  roar, 

We  shall  see,  while  above  us 
The  waves  roar  and  whirl, 
A  ceiling  of  amber, 
A  pavement  of  pearl. 
Singing  :   *  Here  came  a  mortal, 
But  faithless  was  she  ! 
And  alone  dwell  for  ever 
The  kings  of  the  sea.' 

But,  children,  at  midnight, 
When  soft  the  winds  blow, 
When  clear  falls  the  moonlight, 
When  spring-tides  are  low  ; 
When  sweet  airs  come  seaward 
From  heaths  starr'd  with  broom, 
And  high  rocks  throw  mildly 
On  the  blanch'd  sands  a  gloom  ; 
Up  the  still,  glistening  beaches, 


128  The  Golden  Treasury 

Up  the  creeks  we  will  hie, 

Over  banks  of  bright  seaweed 

The  ebb-tide  leaves  dry. 

We  will  gaze,  from  the  sand-hills, 

At  the  white,  sleeping  town  ; 

At  the  church  on  the  hill -side — 

And  then  come  back  down. 

Singing  :  *  There  dwells  a  loved  one, 

But  cruel  is  she  ! 

She  left  lonely  for  ever 

The  kings  of  the  sea.' 

M.  Arnold 


c 

THE  'REVENGE' 

A   BALLAD  OF  THE   FLEET 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Richard  Grenville  lay, 

And  a  pinnace,  like  a  flutter'd  bird,  came  flying  from 
away : 

*  Spanish  ships  of  war  at  sea !  we  have  sighted  fifty- 
three  ! ' 

Then  sware  Lord  Thomas  Howard  :  '  'Fore  God  I  am 
no  coward  ; 

But  I  cannot  meet  them  here,  for  my  ships  are  out  of 
gear, 

And  the  half  my  men  are  sick.  I  must  fly,  but  follow 
quick. 

We  are  six  ships  of  the  line  ;  can  we  fight  with  fifty- 
three  ? ' 

Then  spake  Sir  Richard  Grenville  :  '  I  know  you  are 

no  coward  j 

you  fly  them  for  a  moment  to  fight  with  them  again. 
But  I've  ninety   men  and  more  that  are  lying  sick 

ashore. 
I  should  count  myself  the  coward  if  I  left  them,  my 

Lord  Howard, 
To  these  Inquisition  dogs  and  the  devildoms  of  Sr/ain.' 


Second  Series  129 

So  Lord  Howard  past  away  with  five  ships  of  war 

that  day, 
Till   he  melted   like  a  cloud   in   the   silent    summer 

heaven  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  bore  in  hand  all  his  sick  men  from 

the  land 

Very  carefully  and  slow, 
Men  of  Bideford  in  Devon, 
And  we  laid  them  on  the  ballast  down  below  ; 
For  we  brought  them  all  aboard, 
And  they  blest  him  in  their  pain,  that  they  were  not 

left  to  Spain, 
To  the  thumbscrew  and  the  stake,  for  the  glory  of  the 

Lord. 

He  had  only  a  hundred  seamen  to  work  the  ship 

and  to  fight, 
And   he  sail'd    away   from  Flores  till  the  Spaniard 

came  in  sight, 
With  his  huge  sea-castles  heaving  upon  the  weather 

bow. 

'  Shall  we  fight  or  shall  we  fly  ? 
Good  Sir  Richard,  tell  us  now, 
For  to  fight  is  but  to  die  ! 

There'll  be  little  of  us  left  by  the  time  this  sun  be  set.' 
And   Sir   Richard    said    again :     '  We   be   all    good 

English  men. 
Let  us  bang  these  dogs  of  Seville,  the  children  of  the 

devil, 
For  I  never  turn'd  my  back  upon  Don  or  devil  yet.' 

Sir  Richard  spoke  and  he  laugh'd,  and  we  roar'd  a 

hurrah,  and  so 
The  little  Revenge  ran  on  sheer  into  the  heart  of  the 

foe, 
With  her  hundred  fighters  on  deck,  and  her  ninety 

sick  below ; 
For  half  of  their  fleet  to  the  right  and  half  to  the  left 

were  seen, 
And  the  little  Revenge  ran  on  thro'  the  long  sea-lane 

between. 

K 


130  The  Golden  Treasury 

Thousands  of  their  soldiers  look'd  down  from  their 

decks  and  laugh' d, 
Thousands  of   ineir  seamen  made  mock  at  the  mad 

little  craft 

Running  on  and  on,  till  delay'd 
By  their   mountain- like  San  Philip  that,    of  fifteen 

hundied  tons, 
And  up-shado  \ving  high  above  us  with  her  yawning 

tiers  of  guns, 
Took  the  breath  from  our  sails,  and  we  stay'd. 

And  while  now  the  great  San  Philip  hung  above  us 

like  a  cloud 

vVhence  the  thunderbolt  will  fall 
Long  and  loud, 
Four  galleons  drew  away 
From  the  Spanish  fleet  that  day, 
And  two  upon  the  larboard  and  two  upon  the  star 

board  lay, 
And  the  battle-thunder  broke  from  them  all. 

But  anon  the  great  San  Philip,  she  bethought  herself 

and  went 
Having  that   within  her  womb  that  had  left  her  ill 

content  ; 
And  the  rest  they  came  aboard  us,  and  they  fought  us 

hand  to  hand, 
For  a  dozen  times  they  came  with  their  pikes  and 

musqueteers, 
And  a  dozen  times  we  shook  'em  off  as  a  dog  that 

shakes  his  ears 
When  he  leaps  from  the  water  to  the  land. 

And  the  sun  went  down,  and  the  stars  came  out  tar 

over  the  summer  sea, 
But  never  a  moment  ceased  the  fight  of  the  one  and 

the  fifty-three, 
Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  their  high-built 


galleons  came, 
after  > 


Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  with  her  battle- 
thunder  and  flame  ; 

Ship  after  ship,  the  whole  night  long,  drew  back  with 
her  dead  and  her  shame. 


Second  Series  131 

For  some  were  sunk  and  many  were  shatter'd,  and 

so  could  fight  us  no  more — 
God  of  battles,   was   ever  a   battle  like  this  in  the 

world  before? 

For  he  said  *  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 
Tho'  his  vessel  was  all  but  a  wreck  ; 
And  it  chanced  that,  when  half  of  the  short  summer 

night  was  gone, 

With  a  grisly  wound  to  be  drest  he  had  left  the  deck, 
But  a  bullet  struck  him  that  was  dressing  it  suddenly 

dead, 
And  himself  he  was  wounded  again  in  the  side  and 

the  head, 
And  he  said  '  Fight  on  !  fight  on  ! ' 

And  the  night  went  down,  and  the  sun  smiled  out 

far  over  the  summer  sea, 
And  the  Spanish  fleet  with  broken  sides  lay  round  us 

all  in  a  ring  ; 
But  they  dared  not  touch  us  again,  for  they  fear'd 

that  we  still  could  sting, 
So  they  watch'd  what  the  end  would  be. 
And  we  had  not  fought  them  in  vain, 
But  in  perilous  plight  were  we, 
Seeing  forty  of  our  poor  hundred  were  slain, 
And  half  of  the  rest  of  us  maim'd  for  life 
In  the  crash  of  the  cannonades  and  the  desperate 

strife  ; 
And  the  sick  men  down  in  the  hold  were  most  of 

them  stark  and  cold, 
And   the   pikes   were   all   broken  or   bent,   and  the 

powder  was  all  of  it  spent ; 

And  the  masts  and  the  rigging  were  lying  over  the  side  ; 
But  Sir  Richard  cried  in  his  English  pride, 
'  We    have    fought   such    a   fight  for  a   day  and  a 

night 

As  may  never  be  fought  again  ! 
We  have  won  great  glory,  my  men  ! 
And  a  day  less  or  more 
At  sea  or  ashore, 
We  die — does  it  matter  when  ? 


132  The    Golden    Treasury 

Sink  me  the  ship,  Master  Gunner — sink  her,  split  her 

in  twain  ! 
Fall  into  the  hands  of  God,  not  into  the  hands  of 

Spain  ! ' 

And  the  gunner  said   *  Ay,  ay,'  but  the   seamen 

made  reply  : 

'  We  have  children,  we  have  wives, 
And  the  Lord  hath  spared  our  lives. 
We  will  make  the  Spaniard  promise,  if  we  yield,  to 

let  us  go  ; 
We  shall  live  to  fight  again  and  to  strike  another 

blow.' 
And  the  lion  there  lay  dying,  and  they  yielded  to  the 

foe. 
And  the  stately  Spanish  men  to  their  flagship  bore 

him  then, 
Where  they  laid  him  by  the  mast,  old  Sir  Richara 

caught  at  last, 
And  they  praised  him  to  his  face  with  their  courtly 

foreign  grace  ; 

But  he  rose  upon  their  decks,  and  he  cried  : 
c  I  have  fought  for  Queen  and  Faith  like  a  valiant 

man  and  true  ; 

I  have  only  done  my  duty  as  a  man  is  bound  to  do  • 
With  a  joyful  spirit  I  Sir  Richard  Grenville  die  '. ' 
And  he  fell  upon  their  decks,  and  he  died. 

And  they  stared  at  the  dead  that  hafl  been  so  valiant 

and  true, 
And  had  holden  the  power  and  glory  of  Spain  so 

cheap 
That  he  dared  her  with  one  little  ship  and  his  English 

few  ; 
Was  he  devil  or  man  ?     He  was  devil  for  aught  they 

knew, 
But  they  sank  his  body  with  honour  down  into  the 

deep, 
And  they  mann'd  the  Revenge  with  a  swarthier  alien 

crew, 
And  away  she  sail'd  with  her  loss  and  long'd  for  hei 

own  ; 


Second  Series  1 33 

When  a  wind  from  the  lands  they  had  ruin'd  awoke 

from  sleep, 
And  the  water  began  to  heave  and  the  weather  to 

moan, 
And    or    ever    that    evening    ended    a    great    gale 

blew, 

And  a  wave  like  the  wave  that  is  raised  by  an  earth- 
quake grew, 
Till  it  smote  on  their  hulls  and  their  sails  and  their 

masts  and  their  flags, 
And  the  whole  sea  plunged  and  fell  on  the  shot- 

shatter'd  navy  of  Spain, 
And  the   little    Revenge   herself  went  down  by  the 

island  crags 
To  be  lost  evermore  in  the  main. 

A.  Lord  Tennysor 


CI 

THE  CHARGE   OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
'  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
Charge  for  the  guns  ! '  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

*  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  \ ' 
Was  there  a  man  dismay'd  ? 
Not  tho'  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blunder'd  : 
Their's  not  to  make  reply, 
Their's  not  to  reason  why, 
Their's  but  to  do  and  die  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


134  The    Golden    l^reasitry 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell- 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well, 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Flash'd  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flash'd  as  they  turn'd  in  air 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  vvonder'd  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke 
Right  thro'  the  line  they  broke  5 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reel'd  from  the  sabre-stroke 

Shatter'd  and  sunder'd. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them 

Volley'd  and  thunder'd  ; 
Storm'd  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  thro'  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
O  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wonder'd. 
Honour  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honour  the  Light  Brigade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


Second  Series  135 

en 
HERV&  RIEL 

On   the   sea  and  at  the  Hogue,   sixteen   hundred 

ninety-two, 

Did  the  English  fight  the  French,— woe  to  France ! 
And,   the  thirty-first  of  May,  helter-skelter  through 

the  blue, 
Like  a  crowd  of  frighten'd  porpoises  a  shoal  of  sharks 

pursue, 
Came  crowding  ship  on  ship  to  Saint-Malo  on  the 

Ranee, 
With  the  English  fleet  in  view. 

3Twas  the  squadron  that  escaped,  with  the  victor  in 

full  chase  ; 
First  and  foremost  of  the  drove,  in  his  great  ship, 

Damfreville  ; 

Close  on  him  fled,  great  and  small, 
Twenty-two  good  ships  in  all ; 
And  they  signall'd  to  the  place 
'  Help  the  winners  of  a  race  ! 
Get  us  guidance,  give  us  harbour,  take  us  quick — 

or,  quicker  still, 
Here's  the  English  can  and  will ! J 

Then  the  pilots  of  the  place  put  out  brisk  and  leapt 

on  board  ; 
*  Why,  what  hope  or  chance  have  ships  like  these 

to  pass  ? '  laugh'd  they  : 
*  Rocks  to  starboard,  rocks  to  port,  all  the  passage 

scarr'd  and  scored, — 
Shall  the  Formidable  here,  with  her  twelve  and  eighty 

rns, 
to  make  the  river-mouth  by  the  single  narrow 
way, 
Trust  to  enter — where  'tis  ticklish  for  a  craft  of  twenty 

tons, 

And  with  flow  at  full  beside  ? 
Now,  'tis  slackest  ebb  of  tide. 


136  The  Golden   Treasury 

Reach ^the  mooring?     Rather  say, 
While  rock  stands  or  water  runs, 
Not  a  ship  will  leave  the  bay  ! ' 

Then  was  call'd  a  council  straight. 
Brief  and  bitter  the  debate  : 
4  Here's  the  English  at  our  heels ;  would  you  have 

them  take  in  tow 
All  that's  left  us  of  the  fleet,  link'd  together  stern  and 

bow, 

For  a  prize  to  Plymouth  Sound  ? 
Better  run  the  ships  aground  ! ' 

(Ended  Damfreville  his  speech.) 
*  Not  a  minute  more  to  wait  ! 
Let  the  Captains  all  and  each 
Shove  ashore,  then  blow  up,  burn  the  vessels  on  the 

beach  ! 
France  must  undergo  her  fate. 

'  Give  the  word  !•'     But  no  such  word 
Was  ever  spoke  or  heard  ; 

For  up  stood,  for  out  stepp'd,  for  in  struck  amid  all 

these 
—A  Captain  ?  A  Lieutenant  ?  A  Mate — first,  second, 

third  ? 

No  such  man  of  mark,  and  meet 
With  his  betters  to  compete  ! 
But  a  simple  Breton  sailor  press'd  by  Tourville  for 

the  fleetj 
A  poor  coasting- pilot  he,  Herve  Kiel  the  Croisickese. 

And   '  What   mockery  or  malice  have   we   here  ? ' 

cries  Herve  Kiel : 
'  Are  you  mad,  you  Malouins  ?    Are  you  cowards, 

fools,  or  rogues? 
Talk  to  me  of  rocks  and  shoals,  me  who  took  the 

soundings,  tell 

On  my  fingers  every  bank,  every  shallow,  every  swell 
'Twixt  the  offing  here  and  Greve  where  the  river 

disembogues  ? 

Are   you    bought   by  English  gold  ?     Is  it   love  the 
lying's  for  ? 


Second  Series  137 

Morn  and  eve,  night  and  day, 
Have  I  piloted  your  bay, 

Enter'd  free  and  anchor'd  fast  at  the  foot  of  Solidor. 
Burn  the  fleet  and  ruin  France  ?     That  were  worse 

than  fifty  Hogues  ! 
Sirs,  they  know  I  speak  the  truth  !    Sirs,  believe 

me  there's  a  way  ! 
Only  let  me  lead  the  line, 

Have  the  biggest  ship  to  steer, 
Get  this  Formidable  clear, 
Make  the  others  follow  mine, 
And  I   lead  them,  most  and  least,  by  a  passage  I 

know  well, 
Right  to  Solidor  past  Greve, 

And  there  lay  them  safe  and  sound  ; 
And  if  one  ship  misbehave, — 

— Keel  so  much  as  grate  the  ground, 
Why,  I've  nothing  but  my   life, — here's  my  head  !' 
cries  Herve  Kiel. 

Not  a  minute  more  to  wait, 
4  Steer  us  in,  then,  small  and  great ! 
Take  the  helm,  lead  the  line,  save  the  squadron  ! 

cried  its  chief. 
Captains,  give  the  sailor  place  ! 

He  is  Admiral,  in  brief. 
Still  the  north-wind,  by  God's  grace ! 
See  the  noble  fellow's  face 
As  the  big  ship,  with  a  bound, 
Clears  the  entry  like  a  hound, 
Keeps  the  passage,  as  its  inch  of  way  were  the  wide 

seas  profound  ! 

See,  safe  thro'  shoal  and  rock, 
How  they  follow  in  a  flock, 
Not  a  ship  that  misbehaves,  not  a  keel  that  grates  the 

ground, 

Not  a  spar  that  comes  to  grief ! 
The  peril,  see,  is  past. 
All  are  harbour'd  to  the  last, 
And  just  as  Herve  Kiel  hollas   '  Anchor  ! ' — sure  as 

fate, 
Up  the  English  come, — too  late  ! 


138  The  Golden  Treasury 

So,  the  storm  subsides  to  calm  : 

They  see  the  green  trees  wave 

On  the  heights  o'erlooking  Greve. 
Hearts  that  bled  are  stanch'd  with  balm, 
*  Just  our  rapture  to  enhance, 

Let  the  English  rake  the  bay, 
Gnash  their  teeth  and  glare  askance 

As  they  cannonade  away  ! ' 
'Neath    rampired    Solidor    pleasant    riding    on    the 

Ranee  ! 
How  hope  succeeds  despair  on  each  Captain's  counts 

nance  ! 
Out  burst  all  with  one  accord, 

«  This  is  Paradise  for  Hell  ! 
Let  France,  let  France's  King 
Thank  the  man  that  did  the  thing  ! ' 
What  a  shout,  and  all  one  word, 

'  Herve  Kiel  ! ' 
As  he  stepp'd  in  front  once  more, 

Not  a  symptom  of  surprise 

In  the  frank  blue  Breton  eyes, 
Just  the  same  man  as  before. 

Then  said  Damfreville,  '  My  friend, 
I  must  speak  out  at  the  end, 

Though  I  find  the  speaking  hard. 
Praise  is  deeper  than  the  lips  : 
You  have  saved  the  King  his  ships, 

You  must  name  your  own  reward. 
'Faith,  our  sun  was  near  eclipse  ! 
Demand  whate'er  you  will, 
France  remains  your  debtor  still. 
Ask  to  heart's  content  and  have  !  or  my  name's  not 
Damfreville.' 

Then  a  beam  of  fun  outbroke 
On  the  bearded  mouth  that  spoke, 
As  the  honest  heart  laugh'd  through 
Those  frank  eyes  of  Breton  blue  : 
1  Since  I  needs  must  say  my  say, 

Since  on  board  the  duty's  done, 

And  from  Malo  Roads  to  Croisic  Point,  what  is  it 
but  a  run  ? — 


Second  Series  139 

Since  'tis  ask  and  have,  I  may — 

Since  the  others  go  ashore — 
Come  !     A  good  whole  holiday  ! 

Leave  to  go  and  see  my  wife,  whom  I  call  the  Belle 
Aurore  ! ' 

That  he  ask'd  and  that  he  got, — nothing  more. 

Name  and  deed  alike  are  lost : 
Not  a  pillar  nor  a  post 

In  his  Croisic  keeps  alive  the  feat  as  it  befell ; 
Not  a  head  in  white  and  black 
On  a  single  fishing- smack, 
In  memory  of  the  man  but   for  whom  had  gone  to 

wrack 

All  that  France  saved  from  the  fight  whence  Eng- 
land bore  the  bell : 
Go  to  Paris  :  rank  on  rank 

Search  the  heroes  flung  pell-mell 
On  the  Louvre,  face  and  flank  ! 
You  shall  look  long  enough  ere  you  come  to  Herv£ 

Kiel. 

So,  for  better  and  for  worse, 
Herve  Kiel,  accept  my  verse  ! 
In  my  verse,  Herve  Kiel,  do  thou  once  more 
Save  the  squadron,  honour  France,  love  thy  wife  the 
Belle  Aurore  ! 

R.  Browning 


cm 
THE  LABORATORY: 

ANCIEN    REGIME 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tightly, 
May  gaze  thro'  these  faint  smokes  curling  whitely, 
As  thou  pliest  thy  trade  in  this  devil's-smithy — 
Which  is  the  poison  to  poison  her,  prithee  ? 


140  The  Golden  Treasury 

He  is  with  her,  and  they  know  that  I  know 

Where  they  are,  what  they  do  :  they  believe  my  tears 

flow 
While  they  laugh,  laugh  at  me,  at  me  fled   to  the 

drear 
Empty  church,  to  pray  God   in,  for  Ciem  ! — I  am 

here. 

Grind  away,  moisten  and  mash  up  thy  paste, 
Pound  at  thy  powder, — I  am  not  in  haste  ! 
Better  sit  thus,  and  observe  thy  strange  things, 
Than  go  where  men  wait  me  and  dance  at  the  King's. 

That  in  the  mortar — you  call  it  a  gum  ? 

Ah,  the  brave  tree  whence  such  gold  oozings  come  ! 

And  yonder  soft  phial,  the  exquisite  blue, 

Sure  to  taste  sweetly, — is  that  poison  too  ? 

Had  I  but  all  of  them,  thee  and  thy  treasures, 
What  a  wild  crowd  of  invisible  pleasures  ! 
To  carry  pure  death  in  an  earring,  a  casket, 
A  signet,  a  fan-mount,  a  filigree  basket ! 

Soon,  at  the  King's,  a  mere  lozenge  to  give, 
And  Pauline  should  have  just  thirty  minutes  to  live  ! 
But  to  light  a  pastile,  and  Elise,  with  her  head 
And  her  breast  and  her  arms  and  her  hands,  should 
drop  dead  ! 

Quick — is  it  fmish'd  ?    The  colour's  too  grim ! 
Why  not  soft  like  the  phial's,  enticing  and  dim  ? 
Let  it  brighten  her  drink,  let  her  turn  it  and  stir, 
And  try  it  and  taste,  ere  she  fix  and  prefer  ? 

What  a  drop  !     She's  not  little,  no  minion  like  me  ! 
That's  why  she  ensnared  him  :  this  never  will  free 
The  soul  from  those  masculine  eyes, — say,  '  No  ! ' 
To  that  pulse's  magnificent  come-and-go. 

For  only  last  night,  as  they  whisper'd,  I  brought 
My  own  eyes  to  bear  on  her  so,  that  I  thought 
Could  I  keep  them  one  half  minute  fix'd,  she  would  fall 
Shrivell'd  ;  she  fell  not ;  yet  this  does  it  all ! 


Second  Series  141 

Not  that  I  bid  you  spare  her  the  pain  ; 
Let  death  be  felt  and  the  proof  remain  : 
Brand,  burn  up,  bite  into  its  grace — 
He  is  sure  to  remember  her  dying  face  ! 

Is  it  done  ?    Take  my  mask  off !   Nay,  be  not  morose; 
It  kills  her,  and  this  prevents  seeing  it  close  : 
The  delicate  droplet,  my  whole  fortune's  fee  ! 
If  it  hurts  her,  beside,  can  it  ever  hurt  me  ? 

Now,  take  all  my  jewels,  gorge  gold  to  your  fill, 
You  may  kiss  me,  old  man,  on  my  mouth  if  you  will ! 
But  brush  this  dust  off  me,  lest  horror  it  brings 
Ere  I  know  it — next  moment  I  dance  at  the  King's  ! 

R.  Browning 


CIV 
THE  RED  THREAD  OF  HONOUR 

Eleven  men  of  England 

A  breast-work  charged  in  vain  ; 
Eleven  men  of  England 

Lie  stripp'd,  and  gash'd,  and  slain. 
Slain  ;  but  of  foes  that  guarded 

Their  rock-built  fortress  well, 
Some  twenty  had  been  master'd, 

When  the  last  soldier  fell. 

The  robber-chief  mused  deeply, 

Above  those  daring  dead  ; 
'Bring  here,'  at  length  he  shouted, 

1  Bring  quick,  the  battle  thread. 
Let  Eblis  blast  for  ever 

Their  souls,  if  Allah  will : 
But  WE  must  keep  unbroken 

The  old  rules  of  the  Hill. 

'  Before  the  Ghiznee  tiger 
Leapt  forth  to  burn  and  slay  ; 

Before  the  holy  Prophet 

Taught  our  grim  tribes  to  pray  : 


142  The  Golden  Treasury 

Before  Secunder's  lances 

Pierced  through  each  Indian  glen ; 

The  mountain  laws  of  honour 
Were  framed  for  fearless  men. 

'  Still,  when  a  chief  dies  bravely, 

We  bind  with  green  one  wrist — 
Green  for  the  brave,  for  heroes 

ONE  crimson  thread  we  twist 
Say  ye,  oh  gallant  Hillmen, 

For  these,  whose  life  has  fled, 
Which  is  the  fitting  colour, 

The  green  one,  or  the  red?' 

'  Our  brethren,  laid  in  honour 'd  graves,  may  wear 
Their  green  reward,'  each  noble  savage  said ; 

'To  these,  whom  hawks  and  hungry  wolves  shall 

tear, 
Who  dares  deny  the  red  ? ' 

Thus  conquering  hate,  and  stedfast  to  the  right, 
Fresh  from  the  heart  that  haughty  verdict  came  ; 

Beneath  a  waning  moon,  each  spectral  height 
Roll'd  back  its  loud  acclaim. 

Once  more  the  chief  gazed  keenly 

Down  on  those  daring  dead  ; 
From  his  good  sword  their  heart's  blood 

Crept  to  that  crimson  thread. 
Once  more  he  cried,  *  The  judgment, 

Good  friends,  is  wise  and  true, 
But  though  the  red  be  given, 

Have  we  not  more  to  do  ? 

'  These  were  not  stirr'd  by  anger, 

Nor  yet  by  lust  made  bold  ; 
Renown  they  thought  above  them, 

Nor  did  they  look  for  gold. 
To  them  their  leader's  signal 

Was  as  the  voice  of  God  : 
Unmoved,  and  uncomplaining, 

The  path  it  show'd  they  trod. 


Second  Series  143 

'  As,  without  sound  or  struggle, 

The  stars  unhurrying  march, 
Where  Allah's  finger  guides  them, 

Through  yonder  purple  arch, 
These  Franks,  sublimely  silent, 

Without  a  quicken'd  breath, 
Went,  in  the  strength  of  duty, 

Straight  to  their  goal  of  death. 

'  If  I  were  now  to  ask  you, 

To  name  our  bravest  man, 
Ye  all  at  once  would  answer, 

They  call'd  him  Mehrab  Khan. 
He  sleeps  among  his  fathers, 

Dear  to  our  native  land, 
With  the  bright  mark  he  bled  for 

Firm  round  his  faithful  hand. 

*  The  songs  they  sing  of  Roostum 

Fill  all  the  past  with  light  ; 
If  truth  be  in  their  music, 

He  was  a  noble  knight. 
But  were  those  heroes  living, 

And  strong  for  battle  still, 
Would  Mehrab  Khan  or  Roostum 

Have  climb'd,  like  these,  the  Hill?' 

And    they    replied,     *  Though   Mehrab    Khan  .was 
brave, 

As  chief,  he  chose  himself  what  risks  to  run  ; 
Prince  Roostum  lied,  his  forfeit  life  to  save, 

Which  these  had  never  done.' 

*  Enough  ! '  he  shouted  fiercely  ; 

*  Doom'd  though  they  be  to  hell, 
Bind  fast  the  crimson  trophy 

Round  BOTH  wrists — bind  it  well. 
Who  knows  but  that  great  Allah 

May  grudge  such  matchless  men, 
With  none  so  deck'd  in  heaven, 

To  the  fiends'  flaming  den?' 


144  The  Golden   Treasury 

Then  all  those  gallant  robbers 

Shouted  a  stern  '  Amen  ! ' 
They  raised  the  slaughter'd  sergeant, 

They  raised  his  mangled  ten. 
And  when  we  found  their  bodies 

Left  bleaching  in  the  wind, 
Around  BOTH  wrists  in  glory 

That  crimson  thread  was  twined. 

F.  H.  Doyle 


cv 
THE  FORGING  OF  THE  ANCHOR 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin 's  anchor  forged — 'tis  at  a 

white  heat  now  ; 
The  bellows  ceased,  the  flames  decreased — though  on 

the  forge's  brow, 
The  little  flames  still  fitfully  play  through  the  sable 

mound, 
And  fitfully  you  still  may  see  the  grim  smiths  ranking 

round, 
All  clad  in  leathern  panoply,  their  broad  hands  only 

bare ; 
Some  rest  upon  their  sledges  here,   some  work  the 

windlass  there. 

The  windlass  strains  the  tackle  chains,  the  black 

mound  heaves  below, 
And  red  and  deep  a  hundred  veins  burst  out  at  every 

throe  : 
It  rises,  roars,  rends  all  outright — O,  Vulcan,  what  a 

glow  ! 
'Tis  blinding  white,  'tis  blasting  bright — the  high  sun 

shines  not  so  ; 
The  high  sun  sees  not,  on  the  earth,  such  fiery  fearful 

show  ; 
The  roof-ribs  swarth,  the  candent  hearth,  the  ruddy 

lurid  row 
Of  smiths  that  stand,  an  ardent  band,  like  men  before 

the  foe : 


Second  Series  145 

As,  quivering  through  his  fleece  of  flame,  the  sailing 

monster,  slow 

Sinks  on  the  anvil — all  about  the  faces  fiery  grow : 
*  Hurrah  ! '  they  shout,  *  leap  out — leap  out ; '  bang, 

bang  the  sledges  go  ; 
Hurrah  !  the  jetted    lightnings   are  hissing  high  and 

low — 
A  hailing  fount  of  fire  is  struck  at  every  squashing 

blow, 
The  leathern  mail  rebounds   the  hail,   the   rattling 

cinders  strow 
The  ground  around :   at  every  bound  the  sweltering 

fountains  flow, 
And  thick  and  loud,  the  shrinking  crowd  at  every 

stroke  pant,  *  Ho  ! ' 

Leap  out,  leap  out,  my  masters  ;  leap  out,  and  lay 

on  load  ! 
Let's  forge   a  goodly  anchor — a    bower    thick  and 

broad ; 

For  a  heart  of  oak  is  hanging  on  every  blow,  I  bode, 
And  I  see  the  good  ship   riding,  all   in  a   perilous 

road — 
The  low  reef  roaring  on  her  lee — the  roll  of  ocean 

pour'd  ^ 
From  stem  to*  stern,  sea  after  sea ;  the  mainmast  by 

the  board ; 
The  bulwarks  down,  the  rudder  gone,  the  boats  stove 

at  the  chains  ! 
But   courage   still,    brave    mariners — the    bower  yet 

remains, 
And  not  an  inch  to  flinch  he  deigns,  save  when  ye 

pitch  sky  high ; 

Then  moves  his  head,  as  though  he  said,  *  Fear  noth- 
ing— here  am  I.' 
Swing  in  your  strokes  in  order,   let  foot  and  hand 

keep  time  ; 
Your  blows  make  music  sweeter  far  than  any  steeple's 

chime : 
But  while  you  sling  your  sledges,  sing — and  let  the 

burthen  be, 
The  anchor  is  the  anvil-king,  and  royal  craftsmen  we  / 


146  The  Golden  Treasury 

Strike  in,  strike  in — the  sparks  begin  to  dull  their 

rustling  red  : 
Our  hammers  ring  with  sharper  din,  our  work  will 

soon  be  sped. 
Our  anchor  soon  must  change  his  bed  of  fiery  rich 

array, 
For  a  hammock  at  the  roaring  bows,  or  an  oozy  couch 

of  clay ; 

Our  anchor  soon  must  change  the  lay  of  merry  crafts- 
men here, 
For  the  yeo-heave-o'  and  the  heave-away,   and  the 

sighing  seamen's  cheer ; 
When,  weighing  slow,  at  eve  they  go — far,  far  from 

love  and  home ; 
And  sobbing  sweethearts,   in  a  row,  wail  o'er   the 

ocean  foam. 


In  livid  and  obdurate  gloom  he  darkens  down  at 

last; 
A  shapely  one  he  is,  and  strong,  as  e'er  from  cat  was 

cast. 
O  trusted  and  trustworthy  guard,  if  thou  hadst  life 

like  me, 
What  pleasures  would  thy  toils  reward,  beneath  the 

deep  green  sea  ! 
O  deep  Sea-diver,  who  might  then  behold  such  sights 

as  thou  ? 
The   hoary   monster's   palaces  !    methinks   what  joy 

'twere  now 
To  go  plumb  plunging  down  amid  the  assembly  of  the 

whales, 
And  feel  the  churn'd  sea  round  me  boil  beneath  their 

scourging  tails  ! 

Then   deep  in  tangle-woods  to  fight  the  fierce  sea- 
unicorn, 
And  send  him  foil'd  and  bellowing  back,  for  all  his 

ivory  horn ; 
To   leave    the    subtle    sworder-fish    of   bony    blade 

forlorn ; 
And  for  the  ghastly -grinning  shark  to  laugh  his  jaws 

to  scorn  ; 


Second  Series  147 

To  leap  down  on   the   kraken's   back,   where  'mid 

Norwegian  isles, 

He  lies,  a  lubber  anchorage  for  sudden  shallow'd  miles ; 
Till  snorting,  like  an  under-sea  volcano,  off  he  rolls  ; 
Meanwhile   to   swing,   a-buffeting    the   far-astonish'd 

shoals 
Of  his    back-browsing  ocean-calves ;  or,  haply  in  a 

cove, 
Shell-strewn,  and  consecrate  of  old  to  some  Undine's 

love, 
To  find  the  long-hair'd  mermaidens ;  or,  hard  by  icy 

lands, 
To  wrestle  with  the  Sea-serpent,  upon  cerulean  sands. 

O  broad-arm'd  Fisher  of  the  deep,  whose  sports  can 

equal  thine  ? 
The  Dolphin  weighs  a  thousand  tons,  that  tugs  thy 

cable  line  ! 
And  night  by  night,  'tis  thy  delight,  thy  glory  day  by 

day, 
Through  sable  sea  and  breaker  white,  the  giant  game 

to  play — 
But  shamer  of  our  little  sports  !  forgive  the  name  I 

gave— 

A  fisher's  joy  is  to  destroy — thine  office  is  to  save. 
O   lodger   in  the   sea-kings'  halls,  couldst  thou  but 

understand 
Whose  be  the  white  bones  by  thy  side,  or  who  that 

dripping  band, 
Slow  swaying  in  the  heaving  wave,  that  round  about 

thee  bend, 
With  sounds  like  breakers  in  a  dream  blessing  their 

ancient  friend  ? 
Oh,  couldst  thou  know  what  heroes  glide  with  larger 

steps  round  thee, 
Thine  iron  side  would  swell  with  pride ;  thou'dst  leap 

within  the  sea  ! 

S.  Ferguson 


148  The  Golden  Treasury 


cvi 

HERODIAS 

Her  long  black  hair  danced  round  her  like  a  snake 
Allured  to  each  charm'd  movement  she  did  make ; 

Her  voice  came  strangely  sweet ; 
She  sang,  *  O,  Herod,  wilt  thou  look  on  me — 
Have  I  no  beauty  thy  heart  cares  to  see  ? ' 
And  what  her  voice  did  sing  her  dancing  feet 

Seem'd  ever  to  repeat. 

She  sang,  '  O,  Herod,  wilt  thou  look  on  me  ? 
What  sweet  I  have,  I  have  it  all  for  thee ; ' 

And  through  the  dance  and  song 
She  freed  and  floated  on  the  air  her  arms 
Above  dim  veils  that  hid  her  bosom's  charms  : 
The  passion  of  her  singing  was  so  strong 

It  drew  all  hearts  along. 

Her  sweet  arms  were  unfolded  on  the  air, 

They  seem'd  like  floating  flowers  the  most  fair — 

White  lilies  the  most  choice  ; 
And  in  the  gradual  bending  of  her  hand 
There  lurk'd  a  grace  that  no  man  could  withstand ; 
Yea,  none  knew  whether  hands,  or  feet,  or  voice, 

Most  made  his  heart  rejoice. 

A.   O*  Shaughnessy 


CVII 
'ITALIA,  IO    TI  SALUTO!* 

To  come  back  from  the  sweet  South,  to  the  North 
Where  I  was  born,  bred,  look  to  die  ; 

Come  back  to  do  my  day's  work  in  its  day, 

Play  out  my  play — 
Amen,  amen,  say  I. 


Second  Series  149 

To  see  no  more  the  country  half  my  own, 

Nor  hear  the  half  familiar  speech, 
Amen,  I  say  ;  I  turn  to  that  bleak  North 
Whence  I  came  forth — 

The  South  lies  out  of  reach. 

But  when  our  swallows  fly  back  to  the  South, 

To  the  sweet  South,  to  the  sweet  South, 
The  tears  may  come  again  into  my  eyes 

On  the  old  wise, 
And  the  sweet  name  to  my  mouth. 

C.   G.  Rossetti 


cvm 
HOME-THOUGHTS,   FROM  ABROAD 

Oh,  to  be  in  England 

Now  that  April's  there, 

And  whoever  wakes  in  England 

Sees,  some  morning,  unaware, 

That  the  lowest  boughs  and  the  brush- wood  sheaf 

Round  the  elm -tree  bole  are  in  tiny  leaf, 

While  the  chaffinch  sings  on  the  orchard  bough 

In  England — now  ! 

And  after  April,  when  May  follows, 
And  the  whitethroat  builds,  and  all  the  swallows  ! 
Hark,  where  my  blossom'd  pear-tree  in  the  hedge 
Leans  to  the  field  and  scatters  on  the  clover 
Blossoms  and  dewdrops — at  the  bent  spray's  edge — 
That's  the  wise  thrush  ;  he  sings  each  song  twice  over, 
Lest  you  should  think  he  never  could  recapture 
The  first  fine  careless  rapture  ! 
And  though  the  fields  look  rough  with  hoary  dew, 
All  will  be  gay  when  noontide  wakes  anew 
The  buttercups,  the  little  children's  dower 
— Far  brighter  than  this  gaudy  melon-flower  ! 

R.  Browning 


150  The  Golden   Treasury 


CIX 

LOVE  AMONG   THE  RUINS 

Where  the  quiet-colour'd  end  of  evening  smiles 

Miles  and  miles 
On  the  solitary  pastures  where  our  sheep 

Half-asleep 
Tinkle  homeward  thro'  the  twilight,  stray  or  stop 

As  they  crop — 

Was  the  site  once  of  a  city  great  and  gay, 

(So  they  say) 
Of  our  country's  very  capital,  its  prince 

Ages  since 
Held  his  court  in,  gather'd  councils,  wielding  far 

Peace  or  war. 

Now — the  country  does  not  even  boast  a  tree, 

As  you  see 
To  distinguish  slopes  of  verdure,  certain  rills 

From  the  hills 
Intersect  and  give  a  name  to,  (else  they  run 

Into  one)  « 

Where  the  domed  and  daring  palace  shot  its  spires 

Up  like  fires 
O'er  the  hundred-gated  circuit  of  a  wall 

Bounding  all, 
Made  of  marble,  men  might  march  on  nor  be  prest, 

Twelve  abreast. 

And  such  plenty  and  perfection,  see,  of  grass 

Never  was  ! 
Such  a  carpet  as,  this  summer-time,  o'erspreads 

And  embeds 
Every  vestige  of  the  city,  guess'd  alone, 

Stock  or  stone — 


Second  Series  151 

Where  a  multitude  of  men  breathed  joy  and  woe 

Long  ago  ; 
Lust  of  glory  prick'd  their  hearts  up,  dread  of  shame 

Struck  them  tame  ; 
And  that  glory  and  that  shame  alike,  the  gold 

Bought  and  sold. 

Now, — the  single  little  turret  that  remains 

On  the  plains, 
By  Lhe  caper  overrooted,  by  the  gourd 

Overscored, 
While  the  patching  houseleek's  head  of  blossom  winks 

Through  the  chinks— 

Marks  the  basement  whence  a  tower  in  ancient  time 

Sprang  sublime, 
And  a  burning  ring,  all  round,  the  chariots  traced 

As  they  raced, 
And  the  monarch  and  his  minions  and  his  dames 

View'd  the  games. 

And  I  know,  while  thus  the  quiet-colour'd  eve 

Smiles  to  leave 
To  their  folding,  all  our  many- tinkling  fleece 

In  such  peace, 
And  the  slopes  and  rills  in  undistinguish'd  gray 

Melt  away — 

That  a  girl  with  eager  eyes  and  yeliow  hair 

Waits  me  there 
In  the  turret  whence  the  charioteers  caught  soul 

For  the  goal, 

When    the  king   look'd,    whe/e    she    looks  now, 
breathless,  dumb 

Till  I  come. 

But  he  look'd  upon  the  city,  every  side, 

Far  and  wide, 
All  the  mountains  topp'd  with  temples,  all  the  glades' 

Colonnades, 
All  the  causeys,  bridges,  aqueducts, — and  then, 

Ail  the  men  ! 


152  The  Golden  Treasury 

When  I  do  come,  she  will  speak  not,  she  will  stand, 

Either  hand 
On  my  shoulder,  give  her  eyes  the  first  embrace 

Of  my  face, 
Ere  we  rush,  ere  we  extinguish  sight  and  speech 

Each  on  each. 

In  one  year  they  sent  a  million  fighters  forth 

South  and  North, 
And  they  built  their  gods  a  brazen  pillar  high 

As  the  sky, 
Yet  reserved  a  thousand  chariots  in  full  force — 

Gold,  of  course. 

O,  heart  !  oh,  blood  that  freezes,  blood  that  burns ! 

Earth's  returns 
For  whole  centuries  of  folly,  noise  and  sin  ! 

Shut  them  in, 
With  their  triumphs  and  their  glories  and  the  rest. 

Love  is  best ! 

A\  Browning 


cx 

THE  SKYLARK 

How  the  blithe  Lark  runs  up  the  golden  stair 
That    leans    thro'   cloudy  gates   from    Heaven   to 

Earth, 
And  all  alone  in  the  empyreal  air 

Fills  it  with  jubilant  sweet  songs  of  mirth  ; 
How  far  he  seems,  how  far 

With  the  light  upon  his  wings, 
Is  it  a  bird,  or  star 

That  shines,  and  sings  ? 


Second  Series  153 

What  matter  if  the  days  be  dark  and  frore, 

That  sunbeam  tells  of  other  days  to  be, 
And  singing  in  the  light  that  floods  him  o'er 
In  joy  he  overtakes  Futurity  ; 
Under  cloud-arches  vast 

He  peeps,  and  sees  behind 
Great  Summer  coming  fast 
Adown  the  wind  ! 

And  now  he  dives  into  a  rainbow's  rivers, 

In  streams  of  gold  and  purple  he  is  drown'd, 
Shrilly  the  arrows  of  his  song  he  shivers, 

As  tho'  the  stormy  drops  were  turn'd  to  sound ; 
And  now  he  issues  thro', 

He  scales  a  cloudy  tower, 
Faintly,  like  falling  dew, 
His  fast  notes  shower. 

Let  every  wind  be  hush'd,  that  I  may  hear 

The  wondrous  things  he  tells  the  World  below, 
Things  that  we  dream  of  he  is  watching  near, 
Hopes  that  we  never  dream'd  he  would  bestow ; 
Alas  !  the  storm  hath  roll'd 

Back  the  gold  gates  again, 
Or  surely  he  had  told 
All  Heaven  to  men  ! 

So  the  victorious  Poet  sings  alone. 

And  fills  with  light  his  solitary  home, 
And  thro'  that  glory  sees  new  worlds  foreshown, 
And  hears  high  songs,  and  triumphs  yet  to  come ; 
He  waves  the  air  of  Time 

With  thrills,  of  golden  chords, 
And  makes  the  world  to  climb 
On  linked  words. 

What  if  his  hair  be  gray,  his  eyes  be  dim, 

If  wealth  forsake  him,  and  if  friends  be  cold, 
Wonder  unbars  her  thousand  gates  to  him, 
Truth  never  fails,  nor  Beauty  waxes  old ; 
More  than  he  tells  his  eyes 
Behold,  his  spirit  hears, 
Of  grief,  and  joy,  and  sighs 
'Twixt  joy  and  tears. 


154  The  Golden  Treasury 

Blest  is  the  man  who  with  the  sound  of  song 
Can  charm  away  the  heartache,  and  forget 
The  frost  of  Penury,  and  the  stings  of  Wrong, 
And  drown  the  fatal  whisper  of  Regret ! 
Darker  are  the  abodes 

Of  Kings,  tho'  his  be  poor, 
While  Fancies,  like  the  Gods, 
Pass  thro'  his  door. 

Singing  thou  scalest  Heaven  upon  thy  wings, 

Thou  liftest  a  glad  heart  into  the  skies ; 
He  maketh  his  own  sunrise,  while  he  sings, 
And  turns  the  dusty  Earth  to  Paradise ; 
I  see  thee  sail  along 

Far  up  the  sunny  streams, 
Unseen,  I  hear  his  song, 
I  see  his  dreams. 

F.  Tennyson 


CXI 

THE   GIRT   WOAK  TREE    THAT'S  IN 
THE  DELL 

The  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell ! 
There's  noo  tree  I  do  love  so  well ; 
Vor  times  an'  times  when  I  wer  young, 
I  there've  a-climb'd,  an'  there've  a-zwung, 
An'  pick'd  the  eacorns  green,  a-shed 
In  wrestlen  storms  vrom  his  broad  head. 
An'  down  below's  the  cloty  brook 
Where  I  did  vish  with  line  an'  hook, 
An'  beat,  in  playsome  dips  and  zwims, 
The  foamy  stream,  wi'  white-skinn'd  Urn's. 
An'  there  my  mother  nimbly  shot 
Her  knitten-needles,  as  she  zot 
At  evenen  down  below  the  wide 
.  Woak's  head,  wi'  father  at  her  zide. 
A.n'  I've  a  played  wi'  many  a  bwoy, 
That's  now  a  man  an'  gone  awoy ; 
Zoo  I  do  like  noo  tree  so  well 
*S  -lib?  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell. 


Second  Series  155 

An'  there,  in  leater  years,  I  roved 

Wi'  thik  poor  maid  I  fondly  lov'd, — 

The  maid  too  feair  to  die  so  soon, — 

When  evenen  twilight,  or  the  moon, 

Cast  light  enough  'ithin  the  pleace 

To  show  the  smiles  upon  her  feace, 

Wi'  eyes  so  dear's  the  glassy  pool, 

An'  lips  an'  cheaks  so  soft  as  wool. 

There  han'  in  han',  wi'  bosoms  warm, 

Wi'  love  that  burn'd  but  thought  noo  harm, 

Below  the  wide-bough'd  tree  we  past 

The  happy  hours  that  went  too  vast ; 

An'  though  she'll  never  be  my  wife, 

She's  still  my  leaden  star  o'  life. 

She's  gone  :  an'  she've  a-left  to  me 

Her  mem'ry  in  the  girt  woak  tree  ; 
Zoo  I  do  love  noo  tree  so  well 
'S  the  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell. 

An'  oh  !  mid  never  ax  lor  hook 

Be  brought  to  spweil  his  steately  look  ; 

Nor  ever  roun'  his  ribby  zides 

Mid  cattle  rub  ther  heairy  hides  ; 

Nor  pigs  rout  up  his  turf,  but  keep 

His  Iwonesome  sheade  vor  harmless  sheep ; 

An'  let  en  grow,  an'  let  en  spread, 

An'  let  en  live  when  I  be  dead. 

But  oh  !  if  men  should  come  an'  veil 

The  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell, 

An'  build  his  planks  'ithin  the  zide 

O'  zome  girt  ship  to  plough  the  tide, 

Then,  life  or  death  !  I'd  goo  to  sea, 

A  sailen  wi'  the  girt  woak  tree : 

An'  I  upon  his  planks  would  stand, 

An'  die  a-fighten  vor  the  land, — 

The  land  so  dear, — the  land  so  free, — 

The  land  that  bore  the  girt  woak  tree ; 
Vor  I  do  love  noo  tree  so  well 
'S  the  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell. 

W.  Barnes 


156  The  Golden  Treasury 


CXII 

TELL-TALE  FLOWERS 

And  has  the  Spring's  all  glorious  eye 

No  lesson  to  the  mind  ? 
The  birds  that  cleave  the  golden  sky — 

Things  to  the  earth  resign'd — 
Wild  flowers  that  dance  to  every  wind — 
Do  they  no  memory  leave  behind  ? 

Aye,  flowers  !     The  very  name  of  flowers, 
That  bloom  in  wood  and  glen, 

Brings  Spring  to  me  in  Winter's  hours, 
And  childhood's  dreams  again. 

The  primrose  on  the  woodland  lea 

Was  more  than  gold  and  lands  to  me. 

The  violets  by  the  woodland  side 
Are  thick  as  they  could  thrive ; 

I've  talk'd  to  them  with  childish  pride 
As  things  that  were  alive  : 

I  find  them  now  in  my  distress — 

They  seem  as  sweet,  yet  valueless. 

The  cowslips  on  the  meadow  lea, 

How  have  I  run  for  them  ! 
I  look'd  with  wild  and  childish  glee 

Upon  each  golden  gem  : 
And  when  they  bow'd  their  heads  so  shy 
I  laugh'd,  and  thought  they  danced  for  joy, 

And  when  a  man  in  early  years, 
How  sweet  they  used  to  come, 

And  give  me  tales  of  smiles  and  tears, 

And  thoughts  more  dear  than  home  : 

Secrets  which  words  would  then  reprove — 

They  told  the  names  of  early  love. 


Second  Series  157 

The  primrose  turn'd  a  babbling  flower 

Within  its  sweet  recess  : 
I  blush'd  to  see  its  secret  bower, 

And  turn'd  her  name  to  bless. 
The  violets  said  the  eyes  were  blue  : 
I  loved,  and  did  they  tell  me  true  ? 

/.  Clar* 


CXIII 
ODE   ON  A   FAIR   SPRING  MORNING 

Oh,  see  how  glorious  show, 

On  this  fair  morn  in  May,  the  clear-cut  hills, 

The  dewy  lawns,  the  hawthorns  white, 

Argent  on  plains  of  gold,  the  growing  light 

Pure  as  when  first  on  the  young  earth 

The  faint  warm  sunlight  came  to  birth. 

There  is  a  nameless  air 

Of  sweet  renewal  over  all  which  fills 

The  earth  and  sky  with  life,  and  everywhere, 

Before  the  scarce  seen  sun  begins  to  glow, 

The  birds  awake  which  slumber'd  all  night  long, 

And  with  a  gush  of  song, 

First  doubting  of  their  strain,  then  full  and  wide 

Raise  their  fresh  hymns  thro'  all  the  country  side  ; 

Already,  above  the  dewy  clover, 

The  soaring  lark  begins  to  hover 

Over  his  mate's  low  nest ; 

And  soon,  from  childhood's  early  rest 

In  hall  and  cottage,  to  the  casement  rise 

The  little  ones  with  their  fresh  morning  eyes. 

L.  Morris 


158  The  Golden  Treasury 


cxiv 
AN  EVENING  SCENE 

The  sheep-bell  tolleth  curfew-time ; 

The  gnats,  a  busy  rout, 
Fleck  the  warm  air  ;  the  dismal  owl 

Shouteth  a  sleepy  shout ; 
The  voiceless  bat,  more  felt  than  seen, 

Is  flitting  round  about. 

The  aspen  leaflets  scarcely  stir ; 

The  river  seems  to  think  ; 
Athwart  the  dusk,  broad  primroses 

Look  coldly  from  the  brink, 
Where,  listening  to  the  freshet's  noise, 

The  quiet  cattle  drink. 

The  bees  boom  past ;  the  white  moths  rise 

Like  spirits  from  the  ground  ; 
The  gray  flies  hum  their  weary  tune, 

A  distant,  dream-like  sound  ; 
And  far,  far  off,  to  the  slumb'rous  eve, 

Bayeth  an  old  guardhound. 

C.  Patmore 


cxv 
NIGHT 

An  hour,  and  this  majestic  day  is  gone  ; 

Another  messenger  flown  in  fleet  quest 
Of  Time.     Behold  !  one  winged  cloud  alone, 

Like  a  spread  dragon  overhangs  the  west, 

Bathing  the  splendour  of  his  crimson  crest 
In  the  sun's  last  suffusion, — he  hath  roll'd 

His  vast  length  o'er  the  dewy  sky,  imprest 
With  the  warm  dyes  of  many-colour'd  gold, 
Which,  now  the  sun  is  sunk,  wax  faint,  and  gray, 
old. 


Second  Series  159 

^.nd  now  the  Moon,  bursting  her  watery  prison, 
Heaves  her  full  orb  into  the  azure  clear, 

Pale  witness,  from  the  slumbering  sea  new-risen, 
To  glorify  the  landscape  far  and  near, 
All  beauteous  things  more  beautiful  appear  ; 

The  sky-crown' d  summit  of  the  mountain  gleams 
(Smote  by  the  star-point  of  her  glittering  spear) 

More  steadfastly,  and  all  the  valley  seems 

Strown  with  a  softer  Jight,  the  atmosphere  of  dreams. 

How  still !  as  though  Silence  herself  were  dead, 

And  her  wan  ghost  were  floating  in  the  air ; 
The  Moon  glides  o'er  the  heaven  with  printless  tread, 

And  to  her  far-off  frontier  doth  repair  ; 

O'er-wearied  lids  are  closing  everywhere  ; — 
All  living  things  that  own  the  touch  of  sleep, 

Are  beckon'd,  as  the  wasting  moments  wear, 
Till,  one  by  one,  in  valley,  or  from  steep, 
Unto  their  several   homes  they,  and  their  shadows, 
creep. 

C.  Whitehead 


CXVi 
AFTER  MANY   YEARS 

The  song  that  once  I  dream'd  about, 

The  tender,  touching  thing, 
As  radiant  as  the  rose  without — 

The  love  of  wind  and  wing  ; 
The  perfect  verses  to  the  tune 

Of  woodland  music  setj 
As  beautiful  as  afternoon, 

Remain  unwritten  yet. 

It  is  too  late  to  write  them  now — 

The  ancient  fire  is  cold  ; 
No  ardent  lights  illume  the  brow, 

As  in  the  days  of  old. 


The  Golden   Treasury 

I  cannot  dream  the  dream  again  ; 

But,  when  the  happy  birds 
Are  singing  in  the  sunny  rain, 

I  think  I  hear  its  words. 

I  think  I  hear  the  echo  still 

Of  long  forgotten  tones, 
When  evening  winds  are  on  the  hills, 

And  sunset  fires  the  cones. 
But  only  in  the  hours  supreme, 

With  songs  of  land  and  sea, 
The  lyrics  of  the  leaf  and  stream, 

This  echo  comes  to  me. 

No  longer  doth  the  earth  reveal 

Her  gracious  green  and  gold  ; 
I  sit  where  youth  was  once,  and  feel 

That  I  am  growing  old. 
The  lustre  from  the  face  of  things 

Is  wearing  all  away  ; 
Like  one  who  halts  with  tired  wings, 

I  rest  and  muse  to-day. 

There  is  a  river  in  the  range 

I  love  to  think  about ; 
Perhaps  the  searching  feet  of  change 

Have  never  found  it  out. 
Ah  !  oftentimes  I  used  to  look 

Upon  its  banks,  and  long 
To  steal  the  beauty  of  that  brook 

And  put  it  in  a  song. 

I  wonder  if  the  slopes  of  moss, 

In  dreams  so  dear  to  me — 
The  falls  of  flower  and  flower-like  floss — 

Are  as  they  used  to  be  ! 
I  wonder  if  the  waterfalls, 

The  singers  far  and  fair, 
That  gleamM  between  the  wet,  green  walls, 

Are  still  the  marvels  there  ! 


Second  Series  l6t 

Ah  !  let  me  hope  that  in  that  place 

The  old  familiar  things 
To  which  I  turn  a  wistful  face 

Have  never  taken  wings. 
Let  me  retain  the  fancy  still, 

That,  past  the  lordly  range, 
There  always  shines,  in  folds  of  hill, 

One  spot  secure  from  change  ! 

I  trust  that  yet  the  tender  screen 

That  shades  a  certain  nook 
Remains,  with  all  its  gold  and  green; 

The  glory  of  the  brook. 
It  hides  a  secret  to  the  birds 

And  waters  only  known — 
The  letters  of  two  lovely  words — 

A  poem  on  a  stone. 

Perhaps  the  lady  of  the  past, 

Upon  these  lines  may  light, 
The  purest  verses  and  the  last 

That  I  may  ever  write. 
She  need  not  fear  a  word  of  blame  ; 

Her  tale  the  flowers  keep  ; — 
The  wind  that  heard  me  breathe  her  name 

Has  been  for  years  asleep. 

But  in  the  night,  and  when  the  rain 

The  troubled  torrents  fills, 
I  often  think  I  see  again 

The  river  in  the  hills  : 
And  when  the  day  is  very  near, 

And  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
My  spirit  fancies  it  can  hear 

The  song  I  cannot  sing. 

H.  C.  Kendall 


M 


1 62  The  Golden  Treasury 


cxvn 

THE   GIRT   WOLD  HOUSE   0'  MOSSY 
STWONE 

Don't  talk  ov  housen  all  o'  brick, 

WiJ  rocken  walls  nine  inches  thick, 

A-trigg'd  together  zide  by  zide 

In  streets,  wi'  fronts  a  straddle  wide, 

Wi'  yards  a-sprinkled  wi'  a  mop, 

Too  little  vor  a  vrog  to  hop  ; 

But  let  me  live  an'  die  where  I 

Can  zee  the  ground,  an'  trees,  an'  sky. 

The  girt  wold  house  o'  mossy  stwone 

Had  wings  vor  either  sheade  or  zun  : 

An'  there  the  timber'd  copse  rose  high, 

Where  birds  did  build  an'  hea'res  did  lie, 

An'  beds  o'  greygles  in  the  lew, 

Did  deck  in  May  the  ground  wi'  blue. 

An'  there  by  leanes  a-winden  deep, 

Wer  mossy  banks  a-risen  steep  ; 

An'  stwonen  steps,  so  smooth  an'  wide, 

To  stiles  an'  vootpaths  at  the  zide. 

An'  there,  so  big's  a  little  ground, 

The  gearden  wer  a-wall'd  all  round  : 

An'  up  upon  the  wall  wer  bars 

A-sheaped  all  out  in  wheels  an'  stars, 

Vor  vo'k  to  walk,  an'  look  out  drough 

Vrom  trees  o'  green  to  hills  o'  blue. 

An'  there  wer  walks  o'  peavement,  broad 

Enough  to  meake  a  carriage -road, 

Where  steately  badies  woonce  did  use 

To  walk  wi'  hoops  an'  high-heel  shoes, 

When  yonder  hollow  woak  wer  sound, 

Avore  the  walls  wer  ivy-bound, 

Avore  the  elems  met  above 

The  road  between  em,  where  they  drove 

Their  coach  all  up  or  down  the  road 

A-comen  hwome  or  gwain  abroad. 


Second  Series  163 

The  zummer  air  o'  thease  green  hill 
JV  a-heav'd  in  bosoms  now  all  still, 
An'  all  their  hopes  an'  all  their  tears 
Be  unknown  things  ov  other  years. 

W.  Barnes 


CXVIII 

A    VANISHED    VILLAGE 

Is  this  the  ground  where  generations  lie 

Mourn'd  by  the  drooping  birch  and  dewy  fern. 
And  by  the  faithful,  alder-shaded  burn, 

Which  seems  to  breathe  an  everlasting  sigh? 

No  sign  of  habitation  meets  the  eye; 
Only  some  ancient  furrows  I  discern, 
And  verdant  mounds,  and  from  them  sadly  learn 

That  hereabout  men  used  to  live  and  die. 

Once  the  blue  vapour  of  the  smouldering  peat 
From  half  a  hundred  homes  would  curl  on  high, 

While  round  the  doors  rang  children's  voices  sweet ; 
Where  now  the  timid  deer  goes  wandering  by, 

Or  a  lost  lamb  sends  forth  a  plaintive  bleat, 
And  the  lone  glen  looks  up  to  the  lone  sky. 

R.    Wilton 


cxix 
RETURN  TO  NATURE 

On  the  braes  around  Glenfinnan 
Fast  the  human  homes  are  thinning, 
And  the  wilderness  is  winning 

To  itself  these  graves  again. 
Names  or  dates  here  no  man  knoweth, 
O'er  gray  headstones  heather  groweth, 
Up  Loch-Shiel  the  sea-wind  bloweth 

Over  sleep  of  nameless  men. 


164  The  Golden   Treasury 

Who  were  those  forgotten  sleepers  ? 
Herdsmen  strong,  fleet  forest-keepers, 
Aged  men,  or  widow'd  weepers 

For  their  foray-fallen  ones  ? 
Babes  cut  off  'mid  childhood's  prattle, 
Men  who  lived  with  herds  and  cattle, 
Clansmen  from  Culloden  battle, 

Camerons,  or  Clandonald's  sons  ? 

Blow  ye  winds,  and  rains  effacing  ! 
Blur  the  words  of  love's  fond  tracing  ! 
Nature  to  herself  embracing 

All  that  human  hearts  would  keep  : 
What  they  knew  of  good  or  evil 
Faded,  like  the  dim  primaeval 
Day  that  saw  the  vast  upheaval 

Of  these  hills  that  hold  their  sleep. 

/.  C.  Shairp 


cxx 
.THE    TWO  DESERTS 

Not  greatly  moved  with  awe  am  I 
To  learn  that  we  may  spy 
Five  thousand  firmaments  beyond  our  own. 
The  best  that's  known 

Of  the  heavenly  bodies  does  them  credit  small. 
View'd  close,  the  Moon's  fair  ball 
Is  of  ill  objects  worst, 
A  corpse  in  Night's  highway,  naked,  fire-scarr'd, 

accurst  ; 

And  now  they  tell 

That  the  Sun  is  plainly  seen  to  boil  and  burst 
Too  horribly  for  hell. 
So,  judging  from  these  two, 
As  we  must  do, 

The  Universe,  outside  our  living  Earth, 
Was  all  conceived  in  the  Creator's  mirth, 
Forecasting  at  the  time  Man's  spirit  deep, 
To  make  dirt  cheap. 


Second  Series  165 

Put  by  the  Telescope  ! 

Better  without  it  man  may  see, 

Stretch'd  awful  in  the  hush'd  midnight, 

The  ghost  of  his  eternity. 

Give  me  the  nobler  glass  that  swells  to  the  eye 

The  things  which  near  us  lie, 

Till  Science  rapturously  hails, 

In  the  minutest  water-drop, 

A  torment  of  innumerable  tails. 

These  at  the  least  do  live. 

But  rather  give 

A  mind  not  much  to  pry 

Beyond  our  royal-fair  estate 

Betwixt  these  deserts  blank  of  small  and  great. 

Wonder  and  beauty  our  own  courtiers  are, 

Pressing  to  catch  our  gaze, 

And  out  of  obvious  ways 

Ne'er  wandering  far. 

C.  Patmore 


PHILOMELA 

Hark  !  ah,  the  nightingale — 

The  tawny- throated  ! 

Hark,  from  that  moonlit  cedar  what  a  burst ! 

What  triumph  !  hark  ! — what  pain  ! 

O  wanderer  from  a  Grecian  shore, 
Still,  after  many  years,  in  distant  lands, 
Still  nourishing  in  thy  bewilder'd  brain 
That  wild,  unquench'd,  deep-sunken,  old-world  pain- 
Say,  will  it  never  heal  ? 
And  can  this  fragrant  lawn 
With  its  cool  trees,  and  night, 
And  the  sweet,  tranquil  Thames, 
And  moonshine,  and  the  dew, 
To  thy  rack'd  heart  and  brain 
Afford  no  balm  ? 


1 66  The  Golden   Treasury 

Dost  them  to-night  behold, 

Here,  through  the  moonlight  on  this  English  grass, 
The  unfriendly  palace  in  the  Thracian  wild  ? 
Dost  thou  again  peruse 
With  hot  cheeks  and  sear'd  eyes 
The  too  clear  web,  and  thy  dumb  sister's  shame  ? 
Dost  thou  once  more  assay 
Thy  flight,  and  feel  come  over  thee, 
Poor  fugitive,  the  feathery  change 
Once  more,  and  once  more  seem  to  make  resound 
With  love  and  hate,  triumph  and  agony, 
Lone  Daulis,  and  the  high  Cephissian  vale  ? 
Listen,  Eugenia — 
How  thick   the  bursts   come  crowding   through   the 

leaves  ! 

Again — thou  hearest  ? 
Eternal  passion  ! 
Eternal  pain  ! 

M.  Arnold 


cxxn 
EVENING  MELODY 

O  that  the  pines  which  crown  yon  steep 
Their  fires  might  ne'er  surrender  ! 

O  that  yon  fervid  knoll  might  keep, 
While  lasts  the  world,  its  splendour  ! 

Pale  poplars  on  the  breeze  that  lean, 

And  in  the  sunset  shiver, 
O  that  your  golden  stems  might  screen 

For  aye  yon  glassy  river  ! 

That  yon  white  bird  on  homeward  wing 

Soft-sliding  without  motion, 
And  now  in  blue  air  vanishing 

Like  snow-flake  lost  in  ocean, 

Beyond  our  sight  might  never  flee, 

Yet  forward  still  be  flying ; 
And  all  the  dying  day  might  be 

Immortal  in  its  dying  ! 


Second  Series  167 

Pellucid  thus  in  saintly  trance, 

Thus  mute  in  expectation, 
What  waits  the  earth  ?     Deliverance  ? 

Ah  no  !     Transfiguration  ! 

She  dreams  of  that  '  New  Earth '  divine, 

Conceived  of  seed  immortal ; 
She  sings  '  Not  mine  the  holier  shrine, 

Yet  mine  the  steps  and  portal  ! ' 

A.  de  Vere 


CXXIII 
A   FAREWELL 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea, 

Thy  tribute  wave  deliver  : 
No  more  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

Flow,  softly  flow,  by  lawn  and  lea, 

A  rivulet  then  a  river  : 
No  where  by  thee  rny  steps  shall  be, 

For  ever  and  for  ever. 

But  here  will  sigh  thine  alder  tree, 

And  here  thine  aspen  shiver  ; 
And  here  by  thee  will  hum  the  bee, 

For  ever  and  for  ever: 

A  thousand  suns  will  stream  on  thee, 
A  thousand  moons  will  quiver  ; 

But  not  by  thee  my  steps  shall  be, 
For  ever  and  for  ever. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


1 68  The  Golden  Treasury 

cxxiv 
A   DIRGE 

Naiad,  hid  beneath  the  bank 

By  the  willowy  river-side, 
Where  Narcissus  gently  sank, 

Where  unmarried  Echo  died, 
Unto  thy  serene  repose 
Waft  the  stricken  Anter6s. 

Where  the  tranquil  swan  is  borne, 

Imaged  in  a  watery  glass, 
Where  the  sprays  of  fresh  pink  thorn 

Stoop  to  catch  the  boats  that  pass, 
Where  the  earliest  orchis  grows, 
Bury  thou  fair  Anter6s. 

Glide  we  by,  with  prow  and  oar : 
Ripple  shadows  off  the  wave, 

And  reflected  on  the  shore 
Haply  play  about  his  grave. 

Folds  of  summer-light  enclose 

All  that  once  was  Anter6s. 

On  a  flickering  wave  we  gaze, 
Not  upon  his  answering  eyes  : 

Flower  and  bird  we  scarce  can  praise, 
Having  lost  his  sweet  replies  : 

Cold  and  mute  the  river  flows 

With  our  tears  for  Anterds. 

W.  Johnson-Cory 


cxxv 
TO  A  FRIEND 

Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my  mind  ?— 
He  much,  the  old  man,  who,  clearest-soul'd  of  men, 
Saw  The  Wide  Prospect,  and  the  Asian  Fen, 
And  Tmolus  hill,  and  Smyrna  bay,  though  blind. 


Second  Series  169 

Much  he,  whose  friendship  I  not  long  since  won, 
That  halting  slave,  who  in  Nicopolis 
Taught  Arrian,  when  Vespasian's  brutal  son 
Clear'd  Rome  of  what  most  shamed  him.     But  be  his 

My  special  thanks,  whose  even-balanced  soul, 
From  first  youth  tested  up  to  extreme  old  age, 
Business  could  not  make  dull,  nor  passion  wild  ; 

Who  saw  life  steadily,  and  saw  it  whole  ; 
The  mellow  glory  of  the  Attic  stage, 
Singer  of  sweet  Colonus,  and  its  child. 

M.  Arnold 


cxxvi 
AN  INVOCATION 

I  never  pray'd  for  Dryads,  to  haunt  the  woods  again  ; 

More  welcome  were  the  presence  of  hungering,  thirst- 
ing men, 

Whose  doubts  we  could  unravel,  whose  hopes  we  could 
fulfil, 

Our  wisdom  tracing  backward,  the  river  to  the  rill  ; 

Were  such  beloved  forerunners  one  summer  day 
restored, 

Then,  then  we  might  discover  the  Muse's  mystic  hoard. 

Oh,  dear  divine  Comatas,  I  would  that  thou  and  I 
Beneath  this  broken  sunlight  this  leisure  day  might  lie  ; 
Where  trees  from  distant  forests,  whose  names  were 

strange  to  thee, 
Should  bend  their  amorous  branches  within  thy  reach 

to  be, 
And  flowers  thine  Hellas  knew  not,  which  art  hath 

made  more  fair, 
Should  shed  their  shining  petals  upon  thy  fragrant 

hair. 

Then  thou  shouldst  calmly  listen  with  ever-changing 

looks 
To  songs  of  younger  minstrels  and  plots  of  modern 

books, 


170  The  Golden   Treasury 

And  wonder  at  the  daring  of  poets  later  born, 
Whose  thoughts  are  unto  thy  thoughts  as  noon-tide  is 

to  morn  ; 
And  little  shouldst  thou  grudge  them    their   greatet 

strength  of  soul, 
Thy  partners  in  the  torch-race,  though  nearer  to  the 

goal. 

As  when  ancestral   portraits   look  gravely  from    the 

walls 
Upon  the  youthful  baron  who  treads   their   echoing 

halls  ; 
And  while  he  builds  new  turrets,  the  thrice  ennobled 

heir 
Would  gladly  wake,  his  grandsire  his  home  and  feast 

to  share ; 

So  from  Aegaean  laurels  that  hide  thine  ancient  urn 
I  fain  would  call  thee  hither,  my  sweeter  lore  to  learn. 

Or  in  thy  cedarn  prison  thou  waitest  for  the  bee  : 
Ah,  leave  that  simple  honey,  and  take  thy  food  from 

me. 
My  sun  is  stooping  westward.      Entranced  dreamer, 

haste  : 
There's  fruitage  in  my  garden,  that  I  would  have  thee 

taste. 
Now  lift  the  lid  a  moment :  now,  Dorian  shepherd, 

speak  : 
Two  minds  shall  flow  together,  the  English  and  the 

Greek. 

IV.  Johnson- Cory 
. 


CXXVII 

SONG  OF  CALLICLES  IN  SICILY 

Far,  far  from  here, 
The  Adriatic  breaks  in  a  warm  bay 
Among  the  green  Illyrian  hills  ;  and  there 
The  sunshine  in  the  happy  glens  is  fair, 


Second  Series  171 

And  by  the  sea,  and  in  the  brakes, 

The  grass  is  cool,  the  sea-side  air 

Buoyant  and  fresh,  the  mountain  flowers 

More  virginal  and  sweet  than  ours. 

And  there,  they  say,  two  bright  and  aged  snakes, 

Who  once  were  Cadmus  and  Harmonia, 

Bask  in  the  glens  or  on  the  warm  sea-shore, 

In  breathless  quiet,  after  all  their  ills  ; 

Nor  do  they  see  their  country,  nor  the  place 

Where  the  Sphinx  lived  among  the  frowning  hills, 

Nor  the  unhappy  palace  of  their  race, 

Nor  Thebes,  nor  the  Ismenus,  any  more. 

There  those  two  live,  far  in  the  Illyrian  brakes  ! 
They  had  stay'd  long  enough  to  see, 
In  Thebes,  the  billow  of  calamity 
Over  their  own  dear  children  roll'd, 
Curse  upon  curse,  pang  upon  pang, 
For  years,  they  sitting  helpless  in  their  home, 
A  gray  old  man  and  woman  ;  yet  of  old 
The  Gods  had  to  their  marriage  come, 
And  at  the  banquet  all  the  Muses  sang. 

Therefore  they  did  not  end  their  days 

In  sight  of  blood  ;  but  were  rapt,  far  away, 

To  where  the  west -wind  plays, 

And  murmurs  of  the  Adriatic  come 

To  those  untrodden  mountain- lawns  ;  and  there 

Placed  safely  in  changed  forms,  the  pair 

Wholly  forget  their  first  sad  life,  and  home, 

And  all  that  Theban  woe,  and  stray 

For  ever  through  the  glens,  placid  and  dumb. 

M.  Arnold 


CXXVIII 

CALLICLES  BENEATH  ETNA 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke -bursts, 
Thick  breaks  the  red  flame  ; 
All  Etna  heaves  fiercely 
Her  forest-clothed  frame. 


172  The  Golden   Treasury 

Not  here,  O  Apollo  ! 
Are  haunts  meet  for  thee. 
But,  where  Helicon  breaks  down 
In  cliff  to  the  sea, 

Where  the  moon-silver'd  inlets 
Send  far  their  light  voice 
Up  the  still  vale  of  Thisbe, 
O  speed,  and  rejoice  ! 

On  the  sward  at  the  cliff-top 
Lie  strewn  the  white  flocks, 
On  the  cliff-side  the  pigeons 
Roost  deep  in  the  rocks. 

In  the  moonlight  the  shepherds, 
Soft  lull'd  by  the  rills, 
Lie  wrapt  in  their  blankets 
Asleep  on  the  hills. 

— What  forms  are  these  coming 
So  white  through  the  gloom  ? 
What  garments  out-glistening 
The  gold-flower'd  broom  ? 

What  sweet-breathing  presence 
Out-perfumes  the  thyme  ? 
What  voices  enrapture 
The  night's  balmy  prime  ? — 

'Tis  Apollo  comes  leading 
His  choir,  the  Nine. 
— The  leader  is  fairest, 
But  all  are  divine. 

They  are  lost  in  the  hollows  ! 
They  stream  up  again  ! 
What  seeks  on  this  mountain, 
The  glorified  train  ? — 

They  bathe  on  this  mountain, 
In  the  spring  by  their  road  ; 
Then  on  to  Olympus, 
Their  endless  abode. 


Second  Series  173 

— Whose  praise  do  they  mention  ? 
Of  what  is  it  told  ?— 
What  will  be  for  ever  ; 
'  What  was  from  of  old. 

First  hymn  they  the  Father 
Of  all  things  ;  and  then, 
The  rest  of  immortals, 
The  action  of  men. 

The  day  in  his  hotness, 
The  strife  with  the  palm  ; 
The  night  in  her  silence, 
The  stars  in  their  calm. 

M.  Arnold 


CXXIX 

'PRATER  AVE  ATQUE    VALE' 

Row  as  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione  row  ! 

So  they  row'd,  and  there  we  landed—'  O  venusta 
Sirmio  ! ' 

There  to  me  thro'  all  the  groves  of  olive  in  the  sum- 
mer glow, 

There  beneath  the  Roman  ruin  where  the  purple 
flowers  grow, 

Came  that  'Ave  atque  Vale'  of  the  Poet's  hopeless 
woe, 

Tenderest  of  Roman  poets  nineteen-hundred  years 
ago, 

'  Frater  Ave  atque  Vale ' — as  we  wander'd  to  and  fro 

Gazing  at  the  Lydian-laughter  of  the  Garda  Lake 
below 

Sweet  Catullus's  all-but-island,  olive-silvery  Sirmio  ! 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


174  The  Golden   Treasury 


cxxx 
THYRSIS 


A  MONODY,  to  commemorate  the  author's  friend, 
ARTHUR  HUGH  CLOUGH,  who  died  at  Florence.  1861 


How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  fills ! 
In  the  two  Hinkseys  nothing  keeps  the  same  ; 

The  village  street  its  haunted  mansion  lacks, 
And  from  the  sign  is  gone  Sibylla's  name, 

And  from  the  roofs  the  twisted  chimney-stacks — 

Are  ye  too  changed,  ye  hills  ? 
See,  'tis  no  foot  of  unfamiliar  men 

To-night  from  Oxford  up  your  pathway  strays ! 

Here  came  I  often,  often,  in  old  days — 
Thyrsis  and  I ;  we  still  had  Thyrsis  then. 

Runs  it  not  here,  the  track  by  Childsworth  Farm, 
Past  the  high  wood,  to  where  the  elm -tree  crowns 
The  hill  behind  whose  ridge  the  sunset  flames  ? 
The  signal-elm,  that  looks  on  Ilsley  Downs, 

The   Vale,   the   three   lone   weirs,    the   youthful 

Thames  ? — 

This  winter-eve  is  warm, 
Humid  the  air  !  leafless,  yet  soft  as  spring, 
The  tender  purple  spray  on  copse  and  briers  ! 
And  that  sweet  city  with  her  dreaming  spires, 
She  needs  not  June  for  beauty's  heightening, 

Lovely  all  times  she  lies,  lovely  to-night ! — 
Only,  methinks,  some  loss  of  habit's  power 

Befalls  me  wandering  through  this  upland  dim, 
Once  pass'd  I  blindfold  here,  at  any  hour  ; 

Now  seldom  come  I,  since  I  came  with  him. 

That  single  elm -tree  bright 
Against  the  west — I  miss  it !  is  it  gone  ? 

We  prized  it  dearly  ;  while  it  stood,  we  said, 

Our  friend,  the  Gipsy- Scholar,  was  not  dead  ; 
While  the  tree  lived,  he  in  these  fields  lived  on. 


Second  Series  175 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here, 

But  once  I  knew  each  field,  each  flower,  each  stick; 

And  with  the  country-folk  acquaintance  made 
By  barn  in  threshing-time,  by  new-built  rick. 

Here,  too,  our  shepherd-pipes  we  first  assay'd. 

Ah  me  !  this  many  a  year 
My  pipe  is  lost,  my  shepherd's  holiday  ! 

Needs  must  I  lose  them,  needs  with  heavy  heart 

Into  the  world  and  wave  of  men  depart ; 
But  Thyrsis  of  his  own  will  went  away. 

It  irk'd  him  to  be  here,  he  could  not  rest. 
He  loved  each  simple  joy  the  country  yields, 

He  loved  his  mates  ;  but  yet  he  could  not  keep, 
For  that  a  shadow  lour'd  on  the  fields, 

Here  with  the  shepherds  and  the  silly  sheep. 

Some  life  of  men  unblest 
He  knew,  which  made  him  droop,  and  fill'd  his  head. 

He  went ;  his  piping  took  a  troubled  sound 

Of  storms  that  rage  outside  our  happy  ground  ; 
He  could  not  wait  their  passing,  he  is  dead. 

So,  some  tempestuous  morn  in  early  June, 
When  the  year's  primal  burst  of  bloom  is  o'er, 

Before  the  roses  and  the  longest  day — 
When  garden- walks  and  all  the  grassy  floor 

With  blossoms  red  and  white  of  fallen  May 

Ani  chestnut-flowers  are  strewn — 
So  have  I  heard  the  cuckoo's  parting  cry, 

From  the  wet  field,  through  the  vext  garden-trees, 

Come  with  the  volleying  rain  and  tossing  breeze  : 
The  bloom  is  gone^  and  with  the  bloom  go  I! 

Too  quick  despairer,  wherefore  wilt  thou  go? 
Soon  will  the  high  Midsummer  pomps  come  on, 

Soon  will  the  musk  carnations  break  and  swell, 
Soon  shall  we  have  gold-dusted  snapdragon, 

Sweet-William  with  his  homely  cottage-smell, 

And  stocks  in  fragrant  blow  ; 
Roses  that  down  the  alleys  shine  afar, 

And  open,  jasmine-muffled  lattices, 

And  groups  under  the  dreaming  garden-trees, 
And  the  full  moon,  and  the  white  evening-star.   . 


176  The  Golden   Treasury 

He  hearkens  not  !  light  comer,  he  is  flown  ! 
What  matters  it  ?  next  year  he  will  return, 

And  we  shall  have  him  in  the  sweet  spring-days 
With  whitening  hedges,  and  uncrumpling  fern, 

And  blue -bells  trembling  by  the  forest- ways, 

And  scent  of  hay  new-mown. 
But  Thyrsis  never  more  we  swains  shall  see  ; 

See  him  come  back,  and  cut  a  smoother  reed, 

And  blow  a  strain  the  world  at  last  shall  heed — 
For  Time,  not  Corydon,  hath  conquer'd  thee  ! 

Alack,  for  Corydon  no  rival  now  ! — 

But  when  Sicilian  shepherds  lost  a  mate, 

Some  good  survivor  with  his  flute  would  go, 
Piping  a  ditty  sad  for  Bion's  fate  ; 

And  cross  the  unpermitted  ferry's  flow, 

And  relax  Pluto's  brow, 
And  make  leap  up  with  joy  the  beauteous  head 

Of  Proserpine,  among  whose  crowned  hair 

Are  flowers  first  open'd  on  Sicilian  air, 
And  flute  his  friend,  like  Orpheus,  from  the  dead. 

O  easy  access  to  the  hearer's  grace 

When  Dorian  shepherds  sang  to  Proserpine  ! 

For  she  herself  had  trod  Sicilian  fields, 
She  knew  the  Dorian  water's  gush  divine, 

She  knew  each  lily  white  which  Enna  yields, 

Each  rose  with  blushing  face  ; 
She  loved  the  Dorian  pipe,  the  Dorian  strain. 

But  ah,  of  our  poor  Thames  she  never  heard  ! 

Her  foot  the  Cumner  cowslips  never  stirr'd  ; 
And  we  should  tease  her  with  our  plaint  in  vain  ! 

Well  !  wind-dispersed  and  vain  the  words  will  be, 
Yet,  Thyrsis,  let  me  give  my  grief  its  hour 

In  the  old  haunt,  and  find  our  tree-topp'd  hill  ! 
Who,  if  not  I,  for  questing  here  hath  power  ? 

I  know  the  wood  which  hides  the  daffodil, 

I  know  the  Fyfield  tree, 
I  know  what  white,  what  purple  fritiilaries 

The  grassy  harvest  of  the  river-fields, 

Above  by  Ensham,  down  by  Sandford,  yields, 
And  what  sedged  brooks  are  Thames's  tributaries ; 


Second  Series  177 

I  know  these  slopes  ;  who  knows  them  if  not  I  ? — 
But  many  a  dingle  on  the  loved  hill-side, 

With  thorns  once  studded,  old,  white-blossom'd 

trees, 

Where  thick  the  cowslips  grew,  and  far  descried 
High  tower'd  the  spikes  of  purple  orchises, 

Hath  since  our  day  put  by 
The  coronals  of  that  forgotten  time  ; 

Down  each  green  bank  hath  gone  the  ploughboy's 

team, 

And  only  in  the  hidden  brookside  gleam 
Primroses,  orphans  of  the  flowery  prime. 

Where  is  the  girl,  who  by  the  boatman's  door 
Above  the  locks,  above  the  boating  throng, 

Unmoor'd  our  skiff  when  through  the  Wytham 

flats, 

Red  loosestrife  and  blond  meadow-sweet  among, 
And  darting  swallows  and  light  water-gnats, 

We  track'd  the  shy  Thames  shore  ? 
WTiere  are  the  mowers,  who,  as  the  tiny  swell 
Of  our  boat  passing  heaved  the  river-grass, 
Stood  with  suspended  scythe  to  see  us  pass  ? — 
They  all  are  gone,  and  thou  art  gone  as  well ! 

Yes,  thou  art  gone  !  and  round  me  too  the  night 
In  ever-nearing  circle  weaves  her  shade. 
I  see  her  veil  draw  soft  across  the  day, 
I  feel  her  slowly  chilling  breath  invade 

The  cheek  grown  thin,   the  brown  hair  sprent 

with  gray ; 
I  feel  her  finger  light 

Laid  pausefully  upon  life's  headlong  train  ; — 
The  foot  less  prompt  to  meet  the  morning  dew, 
The  heart  less  bounding  at  emotion  new, 
And  hope,  once  crush'd,  less  quick  to  spring  again. 

And  long  the  way  appears,  which  seem'd  so  short 
To  the  less  practised  eye  of  sanguine  youth  ; 
And  high  the  mountain-tops,  in  cloudy  air, 
The  mountain-tops  where  is  the  throne  of  Truth, 
Tops  in  life's  morning-sun  so  bright  and  bare  ! 
Unbreachable  the  fort 


178  The  Golden   Treasury 

Of  the  long-batter'd  world  uplifts  its  wall ; 

And  strange  and  vain  the  earthly  turmoil  grows, 
And  near  and  real  the  charm  of  thy  repose, 

And  night  as  welcome  as  a  friend  would  fall. 

But  hush  !  the  upland  hath  a  sudden  loss 
Of  quiet  ! — Look,  adown  the  dusk  hill-side, 

A  troop  of  Oxford  hunters  going  home, 
As  in  old  days,  jovial  and  talking,  ride  ! 

From  hunting  with   the  Berkshire  hounds  the} 

come. 

Quick  !  let  me  fly,  and  cross 

Into  yon  farther  field  ! — 'Tis  done  ;  and  see, 

Back'd  by  the  sunset,  which  doth  glorify 

The  orange  and  pale  violet  evening-sky, 

Bare  on  its  lonely  ridge,  the  Tree  !  the  Tree  ! 

I  take  the  omen  !     Eve  lets  down  her  veil, 
The  white  fog  creeps  from  bush  to  bush  about, 

The  west  unflushes,  the  high  stars  grow  bright^ 
And  in  the  scatter' d  farms  the  lights  come  out. 

I  cannot  reach  the  signal-tree  to-night, 

Yet,  happy  omen,  hail  ! 
Hear  it  from  thy  broad  lucent  Arno-vale 

(For  there  thine  earth-forgetting  eyelids  keep 

The  morningless  and  una wakening  sleep 
Under  the  flowery  oleanders  pale), 

Hear  it,  O  Thyrsis,  still  our  tree  is  there  !  - 

Ah,  vain  !     These  English  fields,  this  upland  dim, 

These  brambles  pale  with  mist  engarlanded, 
That  lone,  sky-pointing  tree,  are  not  for  him  ; 

To  a  boon  southern  country  he  is  fled, 

And  now  in  happier  air, 
Wandering  with  the  great  Mother's  train  divine 

(And  purer  or  more  subtle  soul  than  thee, 

I  trow,  the  mighty  Mother  doth  not  see) 
Within  a  folding  of  the  Apennine, 

Thou  hearest  the  immortal  chants  of  old  ! — 
Putting  his  sickle  to  the  perilous  grain 
In  the  hot  cornfield  of  the  Phrygian  king, 


Second  Series  179 

For  thee  the  Lityerses-song  again 

Young  Daphnis  with  his  silver  voice  Joth  sing ; 

Sings  his  Sicilian  fold, 

His  sheep,  his  hapless  love,  his  blinded  eyes — 
And  how  a  call  celestial  round  him  rang, 
And    heavenward    from    the    fountain-brink   he 

sprang, 
And  all  the  marvel  of  the  golden  skies. 

There  thou  art  gone,  and  me  thou  leavest  here 
Sole  in  these  fields  !  yet  will  I  not  despair. 

Despair  I  will  not,  while  I  yet  descry 
'Neath  the  mild  canopy  of  English  air 

That  lonely  tree  against  the  western  sky. 

Still,  still  these  slopes,  'tis  clear, 
Our  Gipsy- Scholar  haunts,  outliving  thee  ! 

Fields  where  soft  sheep  from  cages  pull  the  hay, 

Woods  with  anemonies  in  flower  till  May, 
Know  him  a  wanderer  still ;  then  why  not  me  ? 

A  fugitive  and  gracious  light  he  seeks, 
Shy  to  illumine  ;  and  I  seek  it  too. 

This  does  not  come  with  houses  or  with  gold, 
With  place,  with  honour,  and  a  flattering  crew  ; 

'Tis  not  in  the  world's  market  bought  and  sold — 

But  the  smooth-slipping  weeks 
Drop  by,  and  leave  its  seeker  still  untired  ; 

Out  of  the  heed  of  mortals  he  is  gone, 

He  wends  unfollow'd,  he  must  house  alone  ; 
Yet  on  he  fares,  by  his  own  heart  inspired. 

Thou  too,  O  Thyrsis,  on  like  quest  wast  bound ; 
Thou  wanderedst  with  me  for  a  little  hour  ! 

Men  gave  thee  nothing  ;  but  this  happy  quest, 
If  men  esteem'd  thee  feeble,  gave  thee  power, 
If  men  procured  thee  trouble,  gave  thee  rest. 

And  this  rude  Cumner  ground, 
Its  fir-topped  Hurst,  its  farms,  its  quiet  fields, 
Here  cam'st  thou  in  thy  jocund  youthful  time, 
Here  was  thine  height   of  strength,   thy  golden 

prime  ! 
And  still  the  haunt  beloved  a  virtue  yields. 


i8o  The  Golden  Treasury 

What  though  the  music  of  thy  rustic  flute 
Kept  not  for  long  its  happy,  country  tone  ; 

Lost  it  too  soon,  and  learnt  a  stormy  note 
Of  men  contention-tost,  of  men  who  groan, 

Which  task'd  thy  pipe  too  sore,   and  tired  thy 

throat — 

It  fail'd,  and  thou  wast  mute  ! 
Yet  hadst  thou  alway  visions  of  our  light, 

And  long  with  men  of  care  thou  couldst  not  stay, 
And  soon  thy  foot  resumed  its  wandering  way, 
Left  human  haunt,  and  on  alone  till  night. 

Too  rare,  too  rare,  grow  now  my  visits  here  ! 
'Mid  city-noise,  not,  as  with  thee  of  yore, 

Thyrsis  !  in  reach  of  sheep-bells  is  my  home. 
— Then   through   the    great    town's    harsh,    heart- 
wearying  roar, 
Let  in  thy  voice  a  whisper  often  come, 

To  chase  fatigue  and  fear  : 
Why  faintest  thoti  ?     I  wander  d  till  I  died. 
Roam  on  !     The  light  we  sought  is  shining  still. 
Dost  thou  ask  proof?     Our  tree  yet  crowns  tkt 

hill, 
Our  Scholar  travels  yet  the  loved  hill-side. 

M.  Arnold 


cxxxi 
AMPHIBIAN 

The  fancy  I  had  to-day, 
Fancy  which  turn'd  a  fear  ! 

I  swam  far  out  in  the  bay, 

Since  waves  laugh'd  warm  and  clear. 

I  lay  and  look'd  at  the  sun, 
The  noon-sun  look'd  at  me  : 

Between  us  two,  no  one 

Live  creature,  that  I  could  see. 


Second  Series  181 

Yes  !     There  came  floating  by 

Me,  who  lay  floating  too, 
Such  a  strange  butterfly  ! 

Creature  as  dear  as  new  : 

Because  the  membVaned  wings 

So  wonderful,  so  wide, 
So  sun -suffused,  were  things 

Like  soul  and  nought  beside. 

A  handbreadth  ovei  head  ! 

All  of  the  sea  my  own, 
It  own'd  the  sky  instead  ; 

Both  of  us  were  alone. 

I  never  shall  join  its  flight, 
For,  nought  buoys  flesh  in  air. 

If  it  touch  the  sea — good-night  ! 
Death  sure  and  swift  waits  there. 

Can  the  insect  feel  the  better 
For  watching  the  uncouth  play 

Of  limbs  that  slip  the  fetter, 
Pretend  as  they  were  not  clay  ? 

Undoubtedly  I  rejoice 

That  the  air  comports  so  well 
With  a  creature  which  had  the  choice 

Of  the  land  once.     Who  can  tell  ? 

What  if  a  certain  soul 

Which  early  slipp'd  its  sheath, 

And  has  for  its  home  the  whole 
Of  heaven,  thus  look  beneath, 

Thus  watch  one  who,  in  the  world, 
Both  lives  and  likes  life's  way, 

Nor  wishes  the  wings  unfurl'd 

That  sleep  in  the  worm,  they  say  ? 

But  sometimes  when  the  weather 
Is  blue,  and  warm  waves  tempt 

To  free  oneself  of  tether, 
And  try  a  life  exempt 


1 82  The  Golden  Treasury 

From  worldly  noise  and  dust, 
In  the  sphere  which  overbrims 

With  passion  and  thought, — why,  just 
Unable  to  fly,  one  swims  ! 

By  passion  and  thought  upborne, 

"One  smiles  to  oneself — '  They  fare 
Scarce  better,  they  need  not  scorn 
Our  sea,  who  live  in  the  air  ! ' 

Emancipate  through  passion 
And  thought,  with  sea  for  sky, 

We  substitute,  in  a  fashion, 
For  heaven — poetry  : 

Which  sea,  to  all  intent, 

Gives  flesh  such  noon -disport 

As  a  finer  element 
Affords  the  spirit-sort. 

Whatever  they  are,  we  seem  : 
Imagine  the  thing  they  know  ; 

All  deeds  they  do,  we  dream  ; 
Can  heaven  be  else  but  so  ? 

And  meantime,  yonder  streak 
Meets  the  horizon's  verge  ; 

That  is  the  land,  to  seek 

If  we  tire  or  dread  the  surge  : 

Land  the  solid  and  safe — 
To  welcome  again  (confess  !) 

When,  high  and  dry,  we  chafe 
The  body,  and  don  the  dress. 

Does  she  look,  pity,  wonder 
At  one  who  mimics  flight, 

Swims — heaven  above,  sea  under, 
Yet  always  earth  in  sight  ? 

R.  Browning 


Second  Series 


O  life,  O  death,  O  world,  O  time, 

O  grave,  where  all  things  flow, 
Tis  yours  to  make  our  lot  sublime 

With  your  great  weight  of  woe. 

Though  sharpest  anguish  hearts  may  wring, 

Though  bosoms  torn  may  be, 
Yet  suffering  is  a  holy  thing  ; 

Without  it  what  were  we  ? 

R.  C.  Archbishop  Trench 


CXXXIII 

CONSOLATION 

Mist  clogs  the  sunshine. 
Smoky  dwarf  houses 
Hem  me  round  everywhere  ; 
A  vague  dejection 
Weighs  down  my  soul. 

Yet,  while  I  languish, 
Everywhere  countless 
Prospects  unroll  themselves, 
And  countless  beings 
Pass  countless  moods. 

Far  hence,  in  Asia, 

On  the  smooth  con  vent -roofs, 

On  the  gilt  terraces, 

Of  holy  Lassa, 

Bright  shines  the  sun. 

Gray  time-worn  marbles 
Hold  the  pure  Muses  ; 
In  their  cool  gallery, 
By  yellow  Tiber, 
They  still  look  fair. 


1 84  The  Golden  Treasury 

Strange  unloved  uproar 
Shrills  round  their  portal ; 
Yet  not  on  Helicon 
Kept  they  more  cloudless 
Their  noble  calm. 

Through  sun-proof  alleys 
In  a  lone,  sand-hemm'd 
City  of  Africa, 
A  blind,  led  beggar, 
Age-bow'd,  asks  alms. 

No  bolder  robber 
Erst  abode  ambush'd 
Deep  in  the  sandy  waste  ; 
No  clearer  eyesight 
Spied  prey  afar. 

Saharan  sand -winds 
Sear'd  his  keen  eyeballs  ; 
Spent  is  the  spoil  he  won. 
For  him  the  present 
Holds  only  pain. 

Two  young,  fair  lovers, 
Where  the  warm  June-wind, 
Fresh  from  the  summer  fields. 
Plays  fondly  round  them, 
Stand,  tranced  in  joy. 

With  sweet,  join'd  voices, 
And  with  eyes  brimming  : 
'Ah,'  they  cry,  '  Destiny, 
Prolong  the  present ! 
Time,  stand  still  here  ! ' 

The  prompt  stern  Goddess 
Shakes  her  head,  frowning ; 
Time  gives  his  hour-glass 
Its  due  reversal ; 
Their  hour  is  gone. 


Second  Series  185 

With  weak  indulgence 
Did  the  just  Goddess 
Lengthen  their  happiness, 
She  lengthen' d  also 
Distress  elsewhere. 

The  hour,  whose  happy 
Unalloy'd  moments 
I  would  eternalize, 
Ten  thousand  mourners 
Well  pleased  see  end. 

The  bleak,  stern  hour, 
Whose  severe  moments 
I  would  annihilate, 
Is  pass'd  by  others 
In  warmth,  light,  joy. 

Time,  so  complain'd  of, 
Who  to  of  one  man 
Shows  partiality, 
Brings  round  to  all  men 
Some  undimm'd  hours. 

M.  Arnold 


CXXXIV 

RABBI  BEN  EZRA 

Grow  old  along  with  me  ! 

The  best  is  yet  to  be, 
The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made : 

Our  times  are  in  His  hand 

Who  saith  '  A  whole  I  plann'd, 
Youth  shows  but  half;  trust  God:  see  all  nor  be  afraid  ! ' 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sigh'd  *  Which  rose  make  ours, 
Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall?' 

Not  that,  admiring  stars, 

It  yearn'd  '  Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars ; 
Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  transcends 
them  all ! ' 


l86  The  Golden  Treasury 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 

Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 
Do  I  remonstrate  :  folly  wide  the  mark  ! 

Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 

Low  kinds  exist  without, 
Finish'd  and  finite  clods,  untroubled  by  a  spark. 

Poor  vaunt  of  life  indeed, 

Were  man  but  form'd  to  feed 
On  joy,  to  solely  seek  and  find  and  feast : 

Such  feasting  ended,  then 

As  sure  an  end  to  men  ; 

Irks  care  the  crop-full  bird  ?    Frets  doubt  the  maw- 
cramm'd  beast  ? 

Rejoice  we  are  allied 

To  That  which  doth  provide 
And  not  partake,  effect  and  not  receive  ! 

A  spark  disturbs  our  clod  ; 

Nearer  we  hold  of  God 
Who  gives,  than  of  His  tribes  that  take,  I  must  believe. 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 
Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go  ! 

Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain  ! 

Strive,  and  hold  cheap  the  strain  ; 
Learn,  nor  account  the  pang ;  dare,  never  grudge  the 
throe  ! 

For  thence, — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks, — 
Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail : 

What  I  aspired  to  be, 

And  was  not,  comforts  me  : 

A  brute  I  might  have  been,  but  would  not  sink  i'  the 
scale. 

What  is  he  but  a  brute 

Whose  flesh  has  soul  to  suit, 
Whose  spirit  works  lest  arms  and  legs  want  play  ? 

To  man,  propose  this  test — 

Thy  body  at  its  best, 
How  far  can  that  project  thy  soul  on  its  lone  way? 


Second  Series  "187 

Yet  gifts  should  prove  their  use : 

I  own  the  Past  profuse 
Of  power  each  side,  perfection  every  turn  : 

Eyes,  ears  took  in  their  dole, 

Brain  treasured  up  the  whole  : 

Should  not  the  heart  beat  once  *  How  good  to  live 
and  learn  ? ' 

Not  once  beat  '  Praise  be  Thine  ! 

I  see  the  whole  design, 
I,  who  saw  power,  see  now  love  perfect  too : 

Perfect  I  call  Thy  plan  : 

Thanks  that  I  was  a  man  ! 

Maker,  remake,  complete,  —I  trust  what  Thou  shalt 
do!' 

For  pleasant  is  this  flesh  ; 

Our  soul,  in  its  rose-mesh 
Pull'd  ever  to  the  earth,  still  yearns  for  rest ; 

Would  we  some  prize  might  hold 

To  match  those  manifold 
Possessions  of  the  brute, — gain  most,  as  we  did  best ! 

Let  us  not  always  say 

'  Spite  of  this  flesh  to-day 
I  strove,  made  head,  gain'd  ground  upon  the  whole  !' 

As  the  bird  wings  and  sings, 

Let  us  cry  '  All  good  things 

Are  ours,  nor  soul  helps  flesh  more,  now,  than  flesh 
helps  soul  ! ' 

Therefore  I  summon  age 

To  grant  youth's  heritage, 
Life's  struggle  having  so  far  reach'd  its  term  : 

Thence  shall  I  pass,  approved 

A  man,  for  aye  removed 
From  the  develop'd  brute  ;  a  god  though  in  the  germ. 

And  I  shall  thereupon 

Take  rest,  ere  I  be  gone 
Once  more  on  my  adventure  brave  and  new  : 

Fearless  and  unperplex'd, 

When  I  wage  battle  next, 
What  weapons  to  select,  what  armour  to  indue. 


1 88  The  Golden  Treasury 

Youth  ended,  I  shall  try 

My  gain  or  loss  thereby  ; 
Leave  the  fire  ashes,  what  survives  is  gold  : 

And  I  shall  weigh  the  same, 

Give  life  its  praise  or  blame  : 
Young,  all  lay  in  dispute  ;  I  shall  know,  being  old. 

For  note,  when  evening  shuts, 

A  certain  moment  cuts 
The  deed  off,  calls  the  glory  from  the  gray : 

A  whisper  from  the  west 

Shoots—'  Add  this  to  the  rest, 
Take  it  and  try  its  worth  :  here  dies  another  day.' 

So,  still  within  this  life, 

Though  lifted  o'er  its  strife, 
Let  me  discern,  compare,  pronounce  at  last, 

'  This  rage  was  right  i'  the  main, 

That  acquiescence  vain  : 
The  Future  I  may  face  now  I  have  proved  the  Past.' 

For  more  is  not  reserved 

To  man,  with  soul  just  nerved 
To  act  to-morrow  what  he  learns  to-day  : 

Here,  work  enough  to  watch 

The  Master  work,  and  catch 

Hints  of  the  proper  craft,   tricks  of  the  tool's  true 
play. 

As  it  was  better,  youth 

Should  strive,  through  acts  uncouth, 
Toward  making,  than  repose  on  aught  found  made  -. 

So,  better,  age,  exempt 

From  strife,  should  know,  than  tempt 
Further.     Thou   waitedest   age :    wait   death  nor  be 
afraid  ! 

Enough  now,  if  the  Right 

And  Good  and  Infinite 
Be  named  here,  as  thou  callest  thy  hand  thine  own, 

With  knowledge  absolute, 

Subject  to  no  dispute 
From  fools  that  crowded  youth,  nor  let  thee  feel  alone. 


Second  Series       .  189 

Be  there,  for  once  and  all, 

Sever'd  great  minds  from  small, 
Announced  to  each  his  station  in  the  Past ! 

Was  I,  the  world  arraign'd, 

Were  they,  my  soul  disdain'd, 

Right  ?     Let  age  speak  the  truth  and  give  us  peace  at 
last! 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate  ? 

Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 
Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive ; 

Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 

Match  me  :  we  all  surmise, 

They  this  thing,  and  I    that :  whom  shall  my  soul 
believe  ? 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

CalPd  *  work,'  must  sentence  pass, 
Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the  price ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 
Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in  a  trice  : 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 

And  finger  fail'd  to  plumb, 
So  pass'd  in  making  up  the  main  account ; 

All  instincts  immature, 

All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weigh'd  not  as  his  work,  yet  swell'd  the  man's 
amount : 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  pack'd 

Into  a  narrow  act, 
Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  escaped ; 

All  I  could  never  be, 

All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth  to  God,  whose  wheel  the  pitcher 
shaped. 

Ay,  note  that  Potter's  wheel, 
That  metaphor  !  and  feel 
Why  time  spins  fast,  why  passive  lies  our  clay, — 


190  The  Golden   Treasury 

Thou,  to  whom  fools  propound, 
When  the  wine  makes  its  round, 
*  Since  life  fleets,  all  is  change  ;  the  Past  gone,  seize 
to-day  ! ' 

Fool  !     All  that  is,  at  all, 

Lasts  ever,  past  recall ; 
Earth  changes,  but  thy  soul  and  God  stand  sure  : 

What  enter'd  into  thee, 

That  was,  is,  and  shall  be  : 

Time's    wheel  runs  back  or  stops :  Potter  and  clay 
endure. 

He  fix'd  thee  mid  this  dance 

Of  plastic  circumstance, 
This  Present,  thou,  forsooth,  wouldst  fain  arrest : 

Machinery  just  meant 

To  give  thy  soul  its  bent, 
Try  thee  and  turn  thee  forth,  sufficiently  impress'd. 

What  though  the  earlier  grooves 

Which  ran  the  laughing  loves 
Around  thy  base,  no  longer  pause  and  press  ? 

What  though,  about  thy  rim, 

Scull-things  in  order  grim 
Grow  out,  in  graver  mood,  obey  the  sterner  stress? 

Look  not  thou  down  but  up  ! 

To  uses  of  a  cup, 
The  festal  board,  lamp's  flash  and  trumpet's  peal, 

The  new  wine's  foaming  flow, 

The  Master's  lips  a-glow  ! 

Thou,  heaven's  consummate  cup,   what  need'st  thofl 
with  earth's  wheel? 

But. I  need,  now  as  then, 

Thee,  God,  who  mouldest  men  ; 
And  since,  not  even  while  the  whirl  was  worst, 

Did  I, — to  the  wheel  of  life 

With  shapes  and  colours  rife, 
Bound  dizzily,— mistake  my  end,  to  slake  Thy  thirst : 


Second  Series  191 

So,  take  and  use  Thy  work  : 
Amend  what  flaws  may  lurk, 

What  strain  o'  the  stuff,  what  warpings  past  the  aim  ! 
My  times  be  in  Thy  hand  ! 
Perfect  the  cup  as  plann'd  ! 

Let  age  approve  of  youth,  and  death  complete  the 
same  ! 

JR.  Browning. 


cxxxv 
THE   GUARDIAN-ANGEL: 

A    PICTURE   AT    FANO 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  thou  only  leave 

That  child,   when  thou  hast  done   with   him,   for 
me  ! 

Let  me  sit  all  the  day  here,  that  when  eve 
Shall  find  perform'd  thy  special  ministry, 

And  time  come  for  departure,  thou,  suspending 

Thy  flight,  mayst  see  another  child  for  tending, 
Another  still,  to  quiet  and  retrieve. 

Then  I  shall  feel  thee  step  one  step,  no  more, 
From  where  thou  standest  now,  to  where  I  gaze, 

• — And  suddenly  my  head  is  cover'd  o'er 

With  those  wings,  white  above  the  child  who  prays 

Now  on  that  tomb — and  I  shall  feel  thee  guarding 

Me,  out  of  all  the  world  ;  for  me,  discarding 

Yon   heaven   thy   home,   that   waits   and   opes   its 
door. 

I  would  not  look  up  thither  past  thy  head 

Because  the  door  opes,  like  that  child,  I  know, 

For  I  should  have  thy  gracious  face  instead, 

Thou  bird  of  God  !     And  wilt  thou  bend  me  low 

Like  him,  and  lay,  like  his,  my  hands  together, 

And  lift  them  up  to  pray,  and  gently  tct1ic;r 

Me,  as  thy  lamb  there,  with  thy  garment's  spread? 


192  The  Golden   Treasury 

If  this  was  ever  granted,  I  would  rest 

My  head  beneath  thine,  while  thy  healing  hands 

Close-cover'd  both  my  eyes  beside  thy  breast, 

Pressing  the  brain,  which  too  much  thought  expands, 

Back  to  its  proper  size  again,  and  smoothing 

Distortion  down  till  every  nerve  had  soothing, 
And  all  lay  quiet,  happy  and  suppress'd. 

How  soon  all  worldly  wrong  would  be  repair'd  ! 

I  think  how  I  should  view  the  earth  and  skies 
And  sea,  when  once  again  my  brow  was  bared 

After  thy  healing,  with  such  different  eyes. 
O  world,  as  God  has  made  it  !     All  is  beauty : 
And  knowing  this,  is  love,  and  love  is  duty. 

What  further  may  be  sought  for  or  declared  ? 

R.  Browning 


CXXXVI 

PROSPICE 

Fear  death  ? — to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat, 

The  mist  in  my  face, 
When  the  snows  begin,  and  the  blasts  denote 

I  am  nearing  the  place, 
The  power  of  the  night,  the  press  of  the  storm, 

The  post  of  the  foe  ; 
Where  he  stands,  the  Arch  Fear  in  a  visible  form, 

Yet  the  strong  man  must  go  : 
For  the  journey  is  done  and  the  summit  attain'd, 

And  the  barriers  fall, 
Though  a  battle's  to  fight  ere  the  guerdon  be  gain'd, 

The  reward  of  it  all. 
I  was  ever  a  fighter,  so — one  fight  more, 

The  best  and  the  last  ! 
I  would  hate  that  death  bandaged  my  eyes,  and  forbore, 

And  bade  me  creep  past. 
No  !  let  me  taste  the  whole  of  it,  fare  like  my  peers 

The  heroes  of  old, 
Bear  the  brunt,  in  a  minute  pay  glad  life's  arrears 

Of  pain,  darkness  and  cold. 


Second  Series  193 

For  sudden  the  worst  turns  the  best  to  the  brave, 

The  black  minute's  at  end, 
And  the  elements'  rage,  the  fiend-voices  that  rave, 

Shall  dwindle,  shall  blend, 
Shall  change,  shall  become  first  a  peace  out  of  pain, 

Then  a  light,  then  thy  breast, 
O  thou  soul  of  my  soul  !     I  shall  clasp  thee  again, 

And  with  God  be  the  rest ! 

R.  Browning 


Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth, 
The  labour  and  the  wounds  are  vain, 

The  enemy  faints  not,  nor  faileth, 

And  as  things  have  been,  things  remain. 

If  hopes  were  dupes,  fears  may  be  liars  ; 

It  may  be,  in  yon  smoke  conceal'd 
Your  comrades  chase  e'en  now  the  fliers, 

And,  but  for  you,  possess  the  field. 

For  while  the  tired  waves,  vainly  breaking, 
Seem  here  no  painful  inch  to  gain, 

Far  back,  through  creeks  and  inlets  making, 
Comes  silent,  flooding  in,  the  main. 

And  not  by  eastern  windows  only, 

When  daylight  comes,  comes  in  the  light ; 

In  front,  the  sun  climbs  slow,  how  slowly, 
But  westward,  look,  the  land  is  bright. 

A.  H.  Clough 

CXXXVIII 

EPILOGUE 

TO    ASOLANDO 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time, 

When  you  set  your  fancies  free, 

Will  they  pass  to  where — by  death,  fools  think,  im- 
prison'd — 

Low  he  lies  who  once  so  loved  you,  whom  you  loved  so, 
— Pity  me  ? 


194  The  Golden  Treasury 

Oh  to  love  so,  be  so  loved,  yet  so  mistaken  1 

What  had  I  on  earth  to  do 

With  the  slothful,  with  the  mawkish,  the  unmanly? 
Like  the  aimless,  helpless,  hopeless,  did  I  drivel 
— Being — who  ? 

One  who  never  turn'd  his  back  but  march'd  breast 

forward, 

Never  doubted  clouds  would  break, 
Never  dreamM,   though   right  were  worsted,   wrong 

would  triumph, 

Held  we  fall  to  rise,  are  baffled  to  fight  better, 
Sleep  to  wake. 

No,  at  noonday  in  the  bustle  of  man's  work-time 

Greet  the  unseen  with  a  cheer  ! 

Bid  him  forward,  breast  and  back  as  either  should  be, 

'Strive  and  thrive  !'  cry  ' Speed, — fight  on,  fare  ever 

There  as  her?'' 

R.  Browning 


CXXXIX 

CROSSING  THE  BAR 

Sunset  and  evening  star, 

And  one  clear  call  for  me  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  moaning  of  the  bar, 

When  I  put  out  to  sea, 

But  such  a  tide  as  moving  seems  asleep, 

Too  full  for  sound  and  foam, 
When  that  which  drew  from  out  the  boundless  deep 

Turns  again  home. 

Twilight  and  evening  bell, 

And  after  that  the  dark  ! 
And  may  there  be  no  sadness  of  farewell, 

When  I  embark  ; 


Second  Series  195 

For  tho'  from  out  our  bourne  of  Time  and  Place 

The  flood  may  bear  me  far, 
I  hope  to  see  my  Pilot  face  to  face 

When  I  have  crost  the  bar. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


CXL 

IN  LOVE'S  ETERNITY 

My  body  was  part  of  the  sun  and  the  dew, 

Not  a  trace  of  my  death  to  me  clave, 
There  was  scarce  a  man  left  on  the  earth  whom  I 
knew, 

And  another  was  laid  in  my  grave. 
I  was  changed  and  in  heaven,  the  great  sea  of  blue 

Had  long  wash'd  my  soul  pure  in  its  wave. 

My  sorrow  was  turn'd  to  a  beautiful  dress, 

Very  fair  for  my  weeping  was  I ; 
And  my  heart  was  renew'd,  but  it  bore  none  the  less 

The  great  wound  that  had  brought  me  to  die, 
The  deep  wound  that  She  gave  who  wrought  all  my 
distress ; 

Ah,  my  heart  loved  her  still  in  the  sky  ! 

My  soul  had  forgiven  each  separate  tear 
She  had  bitterly  wrung  from  my  eyes  ; 
But  I  thought   of  her  lightness, — ah  !  sore  was  my 

fear 

She  would  fall  somewhere  never  to  rise, 
And  that  no  one  would  love  her,  to  bring  her  soul 

near 
To  the  heavens,  where  love  never  dies. 

She  had  drawn  me  with  feigning,  and  held  me  a  day ; 

She  had  taken  the  passionate  price 
That  my  heart  gave  for  love,  with  no  doubt  or  delay, 

For  I  thought  that  her  smile  would  suffice  ; 
She  had  play'd  with  and  wasted  and  then  cast  away 

The  true  heart  that  could  never  love  twice. 


196  The  Golden  Treasury 

And  false  must  she  be  ;  she  had  follow'd  the  cheat 
That  ends  loveless  and  hopeless  below  : 

I  remember'd  her  words'  cruel  worldly  deceit 
When  she  bade  me  forget  her  and  go. 

She  could  ne'er  have  believed  after  death  we  might 

meet, 
Or  she  would  not  have  let  me  die  so. 

I  thought,  and  was  sad  :  the  blue  fathomless  seas 
Bore  the  white  clouds  in  luminous  throng  ; 

And  the  souls  that  had   love  were   in   each   one  of 

these; 
They  pass'd  by  with  a  great  upward  song : 

They  were  going  to  wander  beneath  the  fair  trees, 
In  high  Eden — their  joy  would  be  long. 

How  sweet  to  look  back  to  that  desolate  space 
When  the  heaven  scarce  my  heaven  seem'd  ! 

She  came  suddenly,  swiftly, — a  great  healing  grace 
Fill'd  her  features,  and  forth  from  her  stream'd. 

With  a  cry  our  lips  met,  and  a  long  close  embrace 
Made  the  past  like  a  thing  I  had  dream'd. 

Ah  Love  !  she  began,  when  I  found  you  were  dead, 
I  was  changed,  and  the  world  was  changed  too; 

On  a  sudden  I  felt  that  the  sunshine  had  fled, 
And  the  flowers  and  summer  gone  too ; 

Life   but   mock'd   me ;    I   found   there  was  nothing 

instead, 
But  to  turn  back  and  weep  all  in  you. 

When  you  were  not  there  to  fall  down  at  my  feet, 

And  pour  out  the  whole  passionate  store 
Of    the    heart    that   was   made   to   make   my  heart 

complete, 

In  true  words  that  my  memory  bore, — 
Then  I  found  that  those  words  were  the  only  words 

sweet, 
And  I  knew  I  should  hear  them  no  more. 


Second  Series  197 

Ah,  yes  !  but  your  love  was  a  fair  magic  toy, 
That  you  gave  to  a  child,  who  scarce  deign'd 

To  glance  at  it — forsook  it  for  some  passing  joy, 
Never  guessing  the  charm  it  contain'd  ; 

But  you  gave  it  and  left  it,  and  none  could  destroy 
The  fair  talisman  where  it  remain'd. 

And  surely,  no  child,  but  a  woman  at  last 
Found  your  gift  where  the  child  let  it  lie, 

Understood  the  whole  secret  it  held,  sweet  and  vast, 
The  fair  treasure  a  world  could  not  buy ; 

And  believed  not  the  meaning  could  ever  have  past, 
Any  more  than  the  giver  could  die. 

She  ceased.     To  my  soul's  deepest  sources  the  sense 
Of  her  words  with  a  full  healing  crept, 

And  my  heart  was  deliver'd  with  rapture  intense 
From  the  wound  and  the  void  it  had  kept ; 

Then  I  saw  that  her  heart  was  a  heaven  immense 
As  my  love  ;  and  together  we  wept. 

A.  O*  Shaughn.es  sy 


CXLI 
THREE  SEASONS 

1  A  cup  for  hope  ! '  she  said, 
In  springtime  ere  the  bloom  was  old  : 
The  crimson  wine  was  poor  and  cold 
By  her  mouth's  richer  red. 

*  A  cup  for  love  ! '  how  low, 

How  soft  the  words  ;  and  all  the  while 
Her  blush  was  rippling  with  a  smile 
Like  summer  after  snow. 

*  A  cup  for  memory  ! ' 

Cold  cup  that  one  must  drain  alone  : 
While  autumn  winds  are  up  and  moan 
Across  the  barren  sea. 


The  Golden   Tteasury 

Hope,  memory,  love : 
Hope  for  fair  morn,  and  love  for  day, 
And  memory  for  the  evening  gray 

And  solitary  dove. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


CXLII 

HALF   TRUTH 

The  words  that  trembled  on  your  lips 

Were  utter'd  not — I  know  it  well ; 
The  tears  that  would  your  eyes  eclipse 

Were  check' d  and  smother'd,  ere  they  fell : 
The  looks  and  smiles  I  gain'd  from  you 

Were  little  more  than  others  won, 
And  yet  you  are  not  wholly  true, 

Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 

You  know,  at  least  you  might  have  known, 

That  every  little  grace  you  gave, — 
Your  voice's  somewhat  lower'd  tone, — 

Your  hand's  faint  shake  or  parting  wave, — 
Your  every  sympathetic  look 

At  words  that  chanced  your  soul  to  touch, 
While  reading  from  some  favourite  book, 

Were  much  to  me— alas,  how  much  ! 

You  might  have  seen — perhaps  you  saw — 

How  all  of  these  were  steps  of  hope 
On  which  I  rose,  in  joy  and  awe, 

Up  to  my  passion's  lofty  scope  ; 
How  after  each,  a  firmer  tread 

I  planted  on  the  slippery  ground, 
And  higher  raised  my  venturous  head, 

And  ever  new  assurance  found. 

Maybe,  without  a  further  thought, 
It  only  pleased  you  thus  to  please, 

And  thus  to  kindly  feelings  wrought 
You  measured  not  the  sweet  degrees ; 


Second  Series  199 

Yet,  though  you  hardly  understood 
Where  I  was  following  at  your  call, 

You  might — I  dare  to  say  you  should — • 
Have  thought  how  far  I  had  to  fall. 

And  thus  when  fallen,  faint,  and  bruised, 

I  see  another's  glad  success, 
I  may  have  wrongfully  accused 

Your  heart  of  vulgar  fickleness  : 
But  even  now,  in  calm  review 

Of  all  I  lost  and  all  I  won, 
I  cannot  deem  you  wholly  true, 

Nor  wholly  just  what  you  have  done. 

R.  M.  (Milnes)  Lord  Houghton 


.' 

CXLIII 

NESSUN  MAGGIOR  DO  LORE  .  .  . 

They  seem'd  to  those  who  saw  them  meet 
The  worldly  friends  of  every  day, 
Her  smile  was  undisturb'd  and  sweet, 
His  courtesy  was  free  and  gay. 

But  yet  if  one  the  other's  name 
In  some  unguarded  moment  heard, 
The  heart,  you  thought  so  calm  and  tame, 
Would  struggle  like  a  captured  bird  : 

And  letters  of  mere  formal  phrase 
Were  blister'd  with  repeated  tears, — 
And  this  was  not  the  work  of  days, 
But  had  gone  on  for  years  and  years  '. 

Alas,  that  Love  was  not  too  strong 
For  maiden  shame  and  manly  pride  ! 
Alas,  that  they  delay' d  so  long 
The  goal  of  mutual  bliss  beside  ! . 


200  The  Golden   Treasury 

Yet  what  no  chance  could  then  reveal, 
And  neither  would  be  first  to  own, 
Let  fate  and  courage  now  conceal, 
When  truth  could  bring  remorse  alone. 

R.  M.  (Milnes]  Lord  Houghton 


CXLIV 
A   TOCCATA  OF  GALUPPPS 

O,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find  ! 

I  can  hardly  misconceive  you  ;   it  would  prove  me 

deaf  and  blind ; 
But  although  I  take  your  meaning,  'tis  with  such  a 

heavy  mind  ! 

Here  you  come  with  your  old  music,  and  here's  all 

the  good  it  brings. 
What,    they   lived   once   thus   at   Venice   where    the 

merchants  were  the  kings, 
Where  St.  Mark's  is,  where  the  Doges  used  to  wed 

the  sea  with  rings  ? 

Ay,  because  the  sea's  the  street  there  ;  and  'tis  arch'd 

by  ...   what  you  call 
.   .  .  Shylock's  bridge  with  houses  on  it,  where  they 

kept  the  carnival : 
I   was   never   out    of    England — it's   as   if  I   saw  it 

all! 

Did  young  people  take  their  pleasure  when  the  sea 

was  warm  in  May  ? 
Balls  and  masks  begun  at  midnight,  burning  ever  to 

mid-day 
When  they  made  up  fresh  adventures  for  the  morrow, 

do  you  say  ? 


Second  Series  2OI 

Was  a  lady  such  a  lady,  cheeks  so  round  and  lips  so 

red,— 
On  her  neck  the  small  face  buoyant,  like  a  bell-flower 

on  its  bed, 
O'er   the   breast's   superb   abundance   where   a    man 

might  base  his  head  ? 

Well,  (and  it  was  graceful  of  them)  they'd  break  talk 

off  and  afford 
— She,  to  bite  her  mask's  black  velvet,  he,  to  finger 

on  his  sword, 
While  you  sat  and  play'd  Toccatas,  stately  at  the 

clavichord  ? 

What?    Those  lesser   thirds   so  plaintive,  sixths  di- 

minish'd,  sigh  on  sigh, 
Told   them   something?      Those    suspensions,    those 

solutions — '  Must  we  die  ? ' 
Those  commiserating  sevenths — '  Life  might  last !  we 

can  but  try  ! ' 

'Were  you  happy?' — 'Yes.' — 'And  are  you  still  as 

happy  ?  — '  Yes.     And  you  ? ' 
— *  Then,  more  kisses  ! ' — '  Did  /  stop  them,  when  a 

million  seem'd  so  few  ? ' 
Hark  !    the  dominant's  persistence,   till   it  must   be 

answer'd  to  ! 

So  an  octave  struck  the  answer.     O,  they  praised  you, 

I  dare  say  ! 
*  Brave   Galuppi  !    that   was    music  !    good    alike  at 

grave  and  gay  ! 
I  can  always  leave  off  talking,  when  I  hear  a  master 

play.' 

Then  they  left  you  for  their  pleasure  :  till  in  due  time, 

one  by  one, 
Some  with  lives  that  came  to  nothing,  some  with  deeds 

as  well  undone, 
Death  came  tacitly  and  took  them  where  they  never 

see  the  sun. 


202  The  Golden  Treasury 

But  when  I  sit  down  to  reason,  think  to  take  my  stand 

nor  swerve, 
While  I  triumph  o'er  a  secret  wrung  from  nature's  close 

reserve, 
In  you  come  with  your  cold  music,  till  I  creep  through 

every  nerve. 

Yes,  you,   like  a  ghostly   cricket,  creaking  where   a 

house  was  burn'd — 
'  Dust  and  ashes,  dead  and  done  with,  Venice  spent 

what  Venice  earn'd  ! 

The  soul,  doubtless,  is  immortal — where  a  soul  can  be 
discern'd. 

*  Yours  for  instance,  you  know  physics,  something  of 

geology, 
Mathematics   are   your   pastime  ;   souls  shall   rise   in 

their  degree  ; 
Butterflies  may  dread  extinction, — you'll  not  die,  it 

cannot  be  ! 

'  As  for  Venice  and  its  people,  merely  born  to  bloom 

and  drop, 
Here  on  earth  they  bore  their  fruitage,  mirth  and  folly 

were  the  crop  : 
What  of  soul  was  left,  I  wonder,  when  the  kissing 

had  to  stop  ? 

*  Dust  and  ashes  ! '     So  you  creak  it,  and  I  want  the 

heart  to  scold. 
Dear  dead  women,  with  such  hair,  too — what's  become 

of  all  the  gold 
Used  to  hang  and  brush  their  bosoms?  I  feel  chilly 

and  grown  old. 

R.  Browning 


Second  Series  203 


CXLV 

IF  SHE   BUT  KNEW 

If  she  but  knew  that  I  am  weeping 

Still  for  her  sake, 
That  love  and  sorrow  grow  with  keeping 

Till  they  must  break, 
My  heart  that  breaking  will  adore  her, 

Be  hers  and  die  ; 
If  she  might  hear  me  once  implore  her, 

Would  she  not  sigh  ? 

If  she  but  knew  that  it  would  save  me 

Her  voice  to  hear, 
Saying  she  pitied  me,  forgave  me, 

Must  she  forbear  ? 
If  she  were  told  that  I  was  dying, 

Would  she  be  dumb  ? 
Could  she  content  herself  with  sighing  ? 
Would  she  not  come  ? 

A.  O1  Shaughnessy 


CXLVI 

SONG 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose, 

Or  left  the  bird  behind  ? 
Is  the  blue  changed  above  thee, 

O  world  !  or  am  I  blind  ? 
Will  you  change  every  flower  that  grows, 

Or  only  change  this  spot, 
Where  she  who  said,  I  love  thee, 

Now  says,  I  love  thee  not  ? 

The  skies  seem'd  true  above  thee, 

The  rose  true  on  the  tree  ; 
The  bird  seem'd  true  the  summer  through, 

But  all  proved  false  to  me. 


2O4  The  Golden  Treasury 

World  !  is  there  one  good  thing  in  you, 
Life,  love,  or  death — or  what  ? 

Since  lips  that  sang,  I  love  thee, 
Have  said,  I  love  thee  not  ? 

I  think  the  sun's  kiss  will  scarce  fall 

Into  one  flower's  gold  cup  ; 
I  think  the  bird  will  miss  me, 

And  give  the  summer  up. 
O  sweet  place  !  desolate  in  tall 

Wild  grass,  have  you  forgot 
How  her  lips  loved  to  kiss  me, 

Now  that  they  kiss  me  not  ? 

Be  false  or  fair  above  me, 

Come  back  with  any  face, 
Summer  ! — do  I  care  what  you  do  ? 

You  cannot  change  one  place — 
The  grass,  the  leaves,  the  earth,  the  dew, 

The  grave  I  make  the  spot — 
Here,  where  she  used  to  love  me, 

Here,  where  she  loves  me  hot. 

A.  O>  Shaughnessy 


DEPARTURE 

It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways  ! 
Do  you,  that  have  nought  other  to  lament, 
Never,  my  Love,  repent 
Of  how,  that  July  afternoon, 
You  went, 

With  sudden,  unintelligible  phrase, 
And  frighten'd  eye, 
Upon  your  journey  of  so  many  days 
Without  a  single  kiss,  or  a  good-bye  ? 
-I  knew,  indeed,  that  you  were  parting  soon ; 
And  so  we  sate,  within  the  low  sun's  rays, 
You  whispering  to  me,  for  your  voice  was  weak, 
Your  harrowing  praise. 
Well,  it  was  well, 


Second  Series  205 

To  hear  you  such  things  speak, 

And  I  could  tell 

What  made  your  eyes  a  growing  gloom  of  love, 

As  a  warm  South-wind  sombres  a  March  grove. 

And  it  was  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways 

To  turn  your  talk  on  daily  things,  my  Dear, 

Lifting  the  luminous,  pathetic  lash 

To  let  the  laughter  flash, 

Whilst  I  drew  near, 

Because  you  spoke  so  low  that  I  could  scarcely  hear. 

But  all  at  once  to  leave  me  at  the  last, 

More  at  the  wonder  than  the  loss  aghast, 

With  huddled,  unintelligible  phrase, 

And  frighten'd  eye, 

And  go  your  journey  of  all  days 

With  not  one  kiss,  or  a  good-bye, 

And  the  only  loveless  look  the  look  with  which  you 

pass'd : 
'Twas  all  unlike  your  great  and  gracious  ways. 

C.  Patmore 


CXLVIII 

SONG 

I  made  another  garden,  yea, 

For  my  new  love  ; 
I  left  the  dead  rose  where  it  lay, 

And  set  the  new  above. 
Why  did  the  summer  not  begin  ? 

Why  did  my  heart  not  haste  ? 
My  old  love  came  and  walk'd  therein, 

And  laid  the  garden  waste. 

She  enter'd  with  her  weary  smile, 

Just  as  of  old  ; 
She  look'd  around  a  little  while, 

And  shiver'd  at  the  cold. 
Her  passing  touch  was  death  to  all, 

Her  passing  look  a  blight  : 
She  made  the  white  rose-petals  fall, 

And  turn'd  the  red  rose  white. 


206  The  Golden  Treasury 

Her  pale  robe,  clinging  to  the  grass, 

Seem'd  like  a  snake 
That  bit  the  grass  and  ground,  alas  ! 

And  a  sad  trail  did  make. 
She  went  up  slowly  to  the  gate  ; 

And  there,,  just  as  of  yore, 
She  turn'd  back  at  the  last  to  wait, 

And  say  farewell  once  more. 

A.  O*  Shaughncssy 


CXLIX 

THE  LOST  MISTRESS 

All's  over,  then  :  does  truth  sound  bitter 

As  one  at  first  believes  ? 
Hark,  'tis  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 

About  your  cottage  eaves  ! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day  ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully 

— You  know  the  red  turns  gray. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest  ? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine  ? 
Mere  friends  are  we, — well,  friends  the  merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign  : 

For  each  glance  of  the  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stay  in  my  soul  for  ever  ! — 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 

Or  only  a  thought  stronger  ; 
I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 

Or  so  very  little  longer  ! 

R.  Browning 


Second  Series  207 


CL 
ECHO 

Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night ; 

Come  h\  the  speaking  silence  of  a  dream  ; 
Come  with  soft  rounded  cheeks  and  eyes  as  bright 

As  sunlight  on  a  stream  ; 

Come  back  in  tears, 
O  memory,  hope,  love  of  finish'd  years. 

O  dream  how  sweet,  too  sweet,  too  bitter  sweet, 
Whose  wakening  should  have  been  in  Paradise, 

Where  souls  brimful  of  love  abide  and  meet  5 
Where  thirsting  longing  eyes 
Watch  the  slow  door 

That  opening,  letting  in,  lets  out  no  more. 

Yet  come  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  live 
My  very  life  again  though  cold  in  death  : 
Come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  give 
Pulse  for  pulse,  breath  for  breath  : 

Speak  low,  lean  low, 
As  long  ago,  my  love,  how  long  ago. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


CLI 
GREATER  MEMORY 

In  the  neart  there  lay  buried  for  years 
Love's  story  of  passion  and  tears  ; 
Of  the  heaven  that  two  had  begun, 

And  the  horror  that  tore  them  apart, 
When  one  was  love's  slayer,  but  one 

Made  a  grave  for  the  love  in  his  heart. 


208  The  Golden  Treasury 

The  long  years  pass'd  weary  and  lone, 

And  it  lay  there  and  changed  there  unknown ; 

Then  one  day  from  its  innermost  place, 

In  the  shamed  and  the  ruin'd  love's  stead, 
Love  arose  with  a  glorified  face, 

Like  an  angel  that  comes  from  the  dead. 

It  uplifted  the  stone  that  was  set 

On  that  tomb  which  the  heart  held  yet ; 

But  the  sorrow  had  moulder'd  within, 

And  there  came  from  the  long  closed  door 
A  clear  image,  that  was  not  the  sin 

Or  the  grief  that  lay  buried  before. 

The  grief  it  was  long  wash'd  away 
In  the  weeping  of  many  a  day  ; 
And  the  terrible  past  lay  afar, 

Like  a  dream  left  behind  in  the  night ; 
And  the  memory  that  woke  was  a  star 

Shining  pure  in  the  soul's  pure  light. 

There  was  never  the  stain  of  a  tear 
On  the  face  that  was  ever  so  dear  ; 
'Twas  the  same  in  each  lovelier  way ; 

'Twas  the  old  love's  holier  part, 
And  the  dream  of  the  earliest  day 

Brought  back  to  the  desolate  heart. 

It  was  knowledge  of  all  that  had  been 

In  the  thought,  in  the  soul  unseen ; 

'Twas  the  word  which  the  lips  could  not  say 

To  redeem  and  recover  the  past ; 
It  was  more  than  was  taken  away 

Which  the  heart  got  back  at  the  last. 

The  passion  that  lost  its  spell, 
The  rose  that  died  where  it  fell, 
The  look  that  was  look'd  in  vain, 

The  prayer  that  seem'd  lost  evermore, 
They  were  found  in  the  heart  again, 

With  all  that  the  heart  would  restore. 


Second  Series  209 

And  thenceforward  the  heart  was  a  shrine 

For  that  memory  to  dwell  in  divine, 

Till  from  life,  as  from  love,  the  dull  leaven 

Of  grief-stain'd  earthliness  fell ; 
And  thenceforth  in  the  infinite  heaven 

That  heart  and  that  memory  dwell. 

A.  C?  Shaughnessy 


CLII 

I  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless — 

That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair, 

Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the  midnight  air, 

Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud  access 

Of  shrieking  and  reproach.     Full  desertness 

In  souls,  as  countries,  lieth  silent,  bare, 

Under  the  blenching,  vertical  eye -glare 

Of  the  absolute  Heavens.     Deep-hearted  man,  express 

Grief  for  thy  Dead  in  silence  like  to  death ; 

Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 

In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless  woe, 

Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 

Touch  it :  the  marble  eyelids  are  not  wet — 

If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go. 

E.  B.  Browning 


CLII  I 

THE  BROKEN  HEART 

News  o'  grief  had  overteaken 
Dark-ey'd  Fanny,  now  vorseaken  ; 
There  she  zot,  wi'  breast  a-heaven. 
While  vrom  zide  to  zide,  wi'  grieven, 
Veil  her  head,  wi'  tears  a-creepen 
Down  her  cheaks,  in  bitter  weepen. 
There  wer  still  the  ribbon-bow 
She  tied  avore  her  hour  ov  woe, 
An'  there  wer  still  the  han's  that  tied  it 

Hangen  white, 

Or  wringen  tight, 
In  ceare  that  drown'd  all  ceare  bezide  it. 


The  Golden   Treasury 

When  a  man,  wi'  heartless  slighten, 
Mid  become  a  maiden's  blighten, 
He  mid  cearelessly  vorseake  her, 
But  must  answer  to  her  Meaker  ; 
He  mid  slight,  wi'  selfish  blindness, 
All  her  deeds  o'  loven-kindness, 
God  wull  wai'gh  'em  wi'  the  slighten 
That  mid  be  her  love's  requiten  ; 
He  do  look  on  each  deceiver, 

He  do  know 

What  weight  o'  woe 
Do  break  the  heart  ov  ev'ry  griever. 

W.  Barnes 


CLIV 

PARTING 

Too  fair,  I  may  not  call  thee  mine  : 

Too  dear,  I  may  not  see 
Those  eyes  with  bridal  beacons  shine ; 

Yet,  Darling,  keep  for  me — 
Empty  and  hush'd,  and  safe  apart, 
One  little  corner  of  thy  heart. 

Thou  wilt  be  happy,  dear  !  and  bless 
Thee  :  happy  mayst  thou  be. 

I  would  not  make  thy  pleasure  less ; 
Yet,  Darlhig,  keep  for  me — 

My  life  to  light,  my  lot  to  leaven, 

One  little  corner  of  thy  Heaven. 

Good-bye,  dear  heart  !     I  go  to  dwell 

A  weary  way  from  thee  ; 
Our  first  kiss  is  our  last  farewell ; 

Yet,  Darling,  keep  for  me — 
Who  wander  outside  in  the  night, 
One  little  corner  of  thy  light. 

G.  Massey 


Second  Series  211 

CLV 

THE  MAID'S  LAMENT 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is  gone 

I  feel  I  am  alone. 
I  check'd  him  while  he  spoke  ;  yet  could  he  speak, 

Alas  !  I  would  not  check. 
For  reasons  not  to  love  him  once  I  sought, 

And  wearied  all  my  thought 
To  vex  myself  and  him  :  I  now  would  give 

My  love,  could  he  but  live 
Who  lately  lived  for  me,  and  when  he  found 

'Twas  vain,  in  holy  ground 
He  hid  his  face  amid  the  shades  of  death. 

I  waste  for  him  my  breath 
Who  wasted  his  for  me  :  but  mine  returns, 

And  this  lorn  bosom  burns 
With  stifling  heat,  heaving  it  up  in  sleep, 

And  waking  me  to  weep 
Tears  that  had  melted  his  soft  heart :  for  years 

Wept  he  as  bitter  tears. 
Merciful  God!     Such  was  his  latest  prayer, 

These  may  she  never  share  / 
Quieter  is  his  breath,  his  breast  more  cold, 

Than  daisies  in  the  mould, 
Where  children  spell,  athwart  the  churchyard  gate, 

His  name  and  life's  brief  date. 
Pray  for  him,  gentle  souls,  whoe'er  you  be, 

And,  O,  pray  too  for  me  ! 

W.  S.  Landor 


CLVI 

LOVESIGHT 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 

The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known  ? 


212  The  Golden   Treasury 

Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours  (we  two  alone), 
Close-kiss'd  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
Thy  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies, 

And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 

O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  upon  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perish'd  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ? 

D.  G.  Kossetti 


CLVII 

A   FAREWELL 

With  all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart, 

We  two  now  part. 

My  Very  Dear, 

Our  solace  is,  the  sad  road  lies  so  clear. 

It  needs  no  art, 

With  faint,  averted  feet 

And  many  a  tear, 

In  our  opposed  paths  to  persevere. 

Go  thou  to  East,  I  West. 

We  will  not  say 

There's  any  hope,  it  is  so  far  away. 

But,  O,  my  Best, 

When  the  one  darling  of  our  widowhead, 

The  nursling  Grief, 

Is  dead, 

And  no  dews  blur  our  eyes 

To  see  the  peach-bloom  come  in  evening  skies, 

Perchance  we  may, 

Where  now  this  night  is  day, 

And  even  through  faith  of  still  averted  feet, 

Making  full  circle  of  our  banishment, 

Amazed  meet  ; 

The  bitter  journey  to  the  bourne  so  sweet 

Seasoning  the  termless  feast  of  our  content 

With  tears  of  recognition  never  dry. 

C.  Patmore 


Second  Series  213 

CLVIII 

SONG  OF  THE   OLD  LOVE 

When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth, 

My  old  sorrow  wakes  and  cries, 
For  I  know  there  is  dawn  in  the  far,  far  north, 

And  a  scarlet  sun  doth  rise  ; 
Like  a  scarlet  fleece  the  snow-field  spreads, 

And  the  icy  founts  run  free, 
And  the  bergs  begin  to  bow  their  heads, 

And  plunge,  and  sail  in  the  sea. 

O  my  lost  love,  and  my  own,  own  love, 

And  my  love  that  loved  me  so  ! 
Is  there  never  a  chink  in  the  world  above 

Where  they  listen  for  words  from  below  ? 
Nay,  I  spoke  once,  and  I  grieved  thee  sore, 

I  remember  all  that  I  said, 
And  now  thou  wilt  hear  me  no  more — no  more 

Till  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

Thou  didst  set  thy  foot  on  the  ship,  and  sail 

To  the  ice-fields  and  the  snow  ; 
Thou  wert  sad,  for  thy  love  did  nought  avail, 

And  the  end  I  could  not  know ; 
How  could  I  tell  I  should  love  thee  to-day, 

Whom  that  day  I  held  not  dear  ? 
How  could  I  know  I  should  love  thee  away 

When  I  did  not  love  thee  anear  ? 

We  shall  walk  no  more  through  the  sodden  plain 

With  the  faded  bents  o'erspread, 
We  shall  stand  no  more  by  the  seething  main 

While  the  dark  wrack  drives  o'erhead  ; 
We  shall  part  no  more  in  the  wind  and  the  rain, 

Where  thy  last  farewell  was  said  ; 
But  perhaps  I  shall  meet  thee  and  know  thee  again 

When  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead. 

J.  Ingelow 


214  The  Golden  Treasury 


CLIX 
A   DREAM  OF  AUTUMN 

I  heard  a  man  of  many  winters  say, 
•     '  Sometimes  a  sweet  dream  comes  to  me  by  night, 

Fluttering  my  heart  with  pulses  of  delight, 
In  glory  bright  as  day  ; 

'  'Tis  not  the  stir  of  manhood,  nor  the  pain, 

The  flood  of  passions,  and  the  pomp  of  life, 
The  toils,  the  care,  the  triumphs,  and  the  strife, 

That  move  my  soul  again  ; 

'  Ah  !  no,  my  prison-gates  are  open  thrown, 
There  is  a  brighter  earth,  a  lovelier  sun, 
One  face  I  see,  I  hear  one  voice,  but  one, 

'Tis  Sne,  and  She  alone  ! 

'  It  is  a  golden  morning  of  the  spring, 

My  cheek  is  pale,  and  hers  is  warm  with  bloom, 
And  we  are  left  in  that  old  carven  room, 

And  she  begins  to  sing  ; 

'  The  open  casement  quivers  in  the  breeze, 

And  one  large  muskrose  leans  its  dewy  grace 
Into  the  chamber,  like  a  happy  face, 

And  round  it  swim  the  bees  ; 

'  Sometimes  her  sunny  brow  she  loves  to  lean 

Over  her  harp-strings  ;  sometimes  her  blue  eyes 
Are  diving  into  the  blue  morning  skies, 

Or  woodland  shadows  green  ; 

'  Sometimes  she  looks  adown  a  garden  walk 

Whence  echoes  of  blithe  converse  come  and  go, 
And  two  or  three  fair  sisters,  laughing  low, 

Go  hand  in  hand,  and  talk.   , 

'  And  once  or  twice  all  fearfully  she  gazed 

Up  to  her  gray  fore-fathers,  grim  and  tall, 
With  faded  brows  that  frown'd  along  the  wall, 

And  steadfast  eyes  amazed. 


Second  Series  215 

1  She  stays  her  song  ;  I  linger  idly  by  ; 

She  lifts  her  head,  and  then  she  casts  it  down, 
One  small,  fair  hand  is  o'er  the  other  thrown, 

With  a  low,  broken  sigh  ; 

*  I  know  not  what  I  said  ;  what  she  replied 

Lives,  like  eternal  sunshine,  in  my  heart ; 
And  then  I  murmur'd,  Oh  !  we  never  part, 
My  love,  my  life,  my  bride  ! 

'  And  then,  as  if  to  crown  that  first  of  hours, 
That  hour  that  ne'er  was  mated  by  another, 
Into  the  open  casement  her  young  brother 

Threw  a  fresh  wreath  of  flowers. 

*  And  silence  o'er  us,  after  that  great  bliss, 

Fell,  like  a  welcome  shadow  ;  and  I  heard 
The  far  woods  sighing,  and  a  summer  bird 
Singing  amid  the  trees  ; 

'  The  sweet  bird's  happy  song,  that  stream'd  around, 
The  murmur  of  the  woods,  the  azure  skies, 
Were  graven  on  my  heart,  though  ears  and  eyes 

Mark'd  neither  sight  nor  sound. 

*  She  sleeps  in  peace  beneath  the  chancel  stone, 

But  ah  !  so  clearly  is  the  vision  seen, 
The  dead  seem  raised,  or  Death  hath  never  been, 
Were  I  not  here  alone. 

*  Oft,  as  I  wake  at  morn,  I  seem  to  see 

A  moment,  the  sweet  shadow  of  that  shade, 
Her  blessed  face,  as  it  were  loth  to  fade, 
Turn'd  back  to  look  on  me.s 

F.  Tennyson. 


2l6  The  Golden  Treasury 


SILENCES 

'Tis  a  world  of  silences.     I  gave  a  cry 

In  the  first  sorrow  my  heart  could  not  withstand ; 
I  saw  men  pause,  and  listen,  and  look  sad, 
As  though  an  answer  in  their  hearts  they  had  ; 

Some  turn'd  away,  some  came  and  took  my  hand, 
For  all  reply. 

I  stood  beside  a  grave.     Years  had  pass'd  by  ; 

Sick  with  unanswer'd  life  I  turn'd  to  death, 
And  whisper'd  all  my  question  to  the  grave, 
And  watch'd  the  flowers  desolately  \\ave, 

And  grass  stir  on  it  with  a  fitful  breath, 
For  all  reply. 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  heaven  ;  my  prayer  went  high 
Into  the  luminous  mystery  of  the  blue  ; 

My  thought  of  God  was  purer  than  a  flame, 

And  God  it  seem'd  a  little  nearer  came, 

Then  pass'd  ;  and  greater  still  the  silence  grew, 

For  all  reply. 

— But  you  !     If  I  can  speak  before  I  die, 

I  spoke  to  you  with  all  my  soul,  and  when 

I  look  at  you  'tis  still  my  soul  you  see. 

Oh,  in  your  heart  was  there  no  word  for  me  ? 

All  would  have  answer'd  had  you  answer'd  then 

With  even  a  sigh. 

A.  C? Shaughnessy 


CLXI 

AMELIA 

Whene'er  mine  eyes  do  my  Amelia  greet 
It  is  with  such  emotion 
As  when,  in  childhood,  turning  a  dim  street, 
I  first  beheld  the  ocean. 


Second  Series  217 

There,  where  the  little,  bright,  surf- breathing  town, 
That  show'd  me  first  her  beauty  and  the  sea, 
Gathers  its  skirts  against  the  gorse-lit  down 
And  scatters  gardens  o'er  the  southern  lea, 
Abides  this  Maid 

Within  a  kind,  yet  sombre  Mother's  shade, 
Who  of  her  daughter's  graces  seems  almost  afraids 
Viewing  them  ofttimes  with  a  scared  forecast, 
Caught,  haply,  from  obscure  love-peril  past. 
Howe'er  that  be, 
She  scants  me  of  my  right, 
Is  cunning  careful  evermore  to  balk 
Sweet  separate  talk, 
And  fevers  my  delight 
By  frets,  if,  on  Amelia's  cheek  of  peach, 
I  touch  the  notes  which  music  cannot  reach, 
Bidding  '  Good-night  ! ' 

Wherefore  it  came  that,  till  to-day's  dear  date, 
I  cursed  the  weary  months  which  yet  I  have  to  wait 
Ere  I  find  heaven,  one-nested  with  my  mate. 

To-day,  the  Mother  gave, 
To  urgent  pleas  and  promise  to  behave 
As  she  were  there,  her  long-besought  consent 
To  trust  Amelia  with  me  to  the  grave 
Where  lay  my  once-betrothed,  Millicent : 

*  For,'  said  she,  hiding  ill  a  moistening  eye, 

*  Though,  Sir,  the  word  sounds  hard, 

God  makes  as  if  He  least  knew  how  to  guard 
The  treasure  He  loves  best,  simplicity.1 

And  there  Amelia  stood,  for  fairness  shown 
Like  a  young  apple-tree,  in  flush'd  array 
Of  white  and  ruddy  flower,  auroral,  gay, 
With  chilly  blue  the  maiden  branch  between  ; 
And  yet  to  look  on  her  moved  less  the  mind 
To   say   *  How   beauteous  ! '    than   *  How   good   and 
kind  ! ' 

And  so  we  went  alone 

By  walls  o'er  which  the  lilac's  numerous  plume 
Shook  down  perfume  ; 
Trim  plots  close  blown 
With  daisies,  in  conspicuous  myriads  seen, 
Engross'd  each  one 


218  The  Golden  Treasury 

With  single  ardour  for  her  spouse,  the  sun  ; 

Garths  in  their  glad  array 

Of  white  and  ruddy  branch,  auroral,  gay, 

With  azure  chill  the  maiden  flower  between  ; 

Meadows  of  fervid  green, 

With  sometime  sudden  prospect  of  untold 

Cowslips,  like  chance-found  gold  ; 

And  broadcast  buttercups  at  joyful  gaze, 

Rending  the  air  with  praise, 

Like  the  six-hundred-thousand-voiced  shout 

Of  Jacob  camp'd  in  Midian  put  to  rout ; 

Then  through  the  Park, 

Where  Spring  to  livelier  gloom 

Quicken'd  the  cedars  dark, 

And,  'gainst  the  clear  sky  cold, 

Which  shone  afar 

Crowded  with  sunny  alps  oracular, 

Great  chestnuts  raised  themselves  abroad  like  cliffs  of 

bloom  : 

And  everywhere, 

Amid  the  ceaseless  rapture  of  the  lark, 
With  wonder  new 

We  caught  the  solemn  voice  of  single  air, 
*  Cuckoo  ! ' 

And  when  Amelia,  'bolden'd,  saw  and  heard 
How  bravely  sang  the  bird, 
And  all  things  in  God's  bounty  did  rejoice, 
She  who,  her  Mother  by,  spake  seldom  word, 
Did  her  charm'd  silence  doff, 
And,  to  my  happy  marvel,  her  dear  voice 
Went  as  a  clock  does,  when  the  pendulum's  off. 
Ill  Monarch  of  man's  heart  the  Maiden  who 
Does  not  aspire  to  be  High-Pontiff  too  ! 
So  she  repeated  soft  her  Poet's  line, 
1  By  grace  divine, 

Not  otherwise,  O  Nature,  are  we  thine  ! ' 
And  I,  up  the  bright  steep  she  led  me,  trod, 
And  the  like  thought  pursued 
With,  *  What  is  gladness  without  gratitude, 
And  where  is  gratitude  without  a  God  ? ' 
And  of  delight,  the  guerdon  of  His  laws, 
She  spake,  in  learned  mood  ; 


Second  Series  *I 

And  I,  of  Him  loved  reverently,  as  Cause, 

Her  sweetly,  as  Occasion  of  all  good. 

Nor  were  we  shy, 

For  souls  in  heaven  that  be 

May  talk  of  heaven  without  hypocrisy. 

And  now,  when  we  drew  near 
The  low,  gray  Church,  in  its  sequester'd  dell, 
A  shade  upon  me  fell. 

Dead  Millicent  indeed  had  been  most  sweet, 
But  I  how  little  meet 
To  call  such  graces  in  a  Maiden  mine  ! 
A  boy's  proud  passion  free  affection  blunts ; 
His  well-meant  flatteries  oft  are  blind  affronts  ; 
And  many  a  tear 

Was  Millicent's  before  I,  manlier,  knew 
That  maidens  shine 
As  diamonds  do, 
Which,  though  most  clear, 
Are  not  to  be  seen  through  ; 
And,  if  she  put  her  virgin  self  aside 
And  sate  her,  crownless,  at  my  conquering  feet, 
It  should  have  bred  in  me  humility,  not  pride. 
Amelia  had  more  luck  than  Millicent, 
Secure  she  smiled  and  warm  from  all  mischance 
Or  from  my  knowledge  or  my  ignorance, 
And  glow'd  content 
With   my — some   might   have    thought    too   much 

superior  age, 
Which  seem'd  the  gage 
Of  steady  kindness  all  on  her  intent. 
Thus  nought  forbade  us  to  be  fully  blent. 

While,  therefore,  now 
Her  pensive  footstep  stirr'd 
The  darnell'd  garden  of  unheedful  death, 
She  ask'd  what  Millicent  was  like,  and  heard 
Of  eyes  like  her's,  and  honeysuckle  breath, 
And  of  a  wiser  than  a  woman's  brow, 
Yet  fill'd  with  only  woman's  love,  and  how 
An  incidental  greatness  character'd 
Her  unconsider'd  ways. 
But  all  my  praise 
Amelia  thought  too,  slight  for  Millicent, 


22O  The  Golden  Treasury 

And  on  my  lovelier-freighted  arm  she  leant, 

For  more  attent ; 

And  the  tea-rose  I  gave, 

To  deck  her  breast,  she  dropp'd  upon  the  grave. 

*  And  this  was  her's,'  said  I,  decoring  with  a  band 

Of  mildest  pearls  Amelia's  milder  hand. 

4  Nay,  I  will  wear  it  for  her  sake,'  she  said  : 

For  dear  to  maidens  are  their  rivals  dead. 

And  so, 

She  seated  on  the  black  yew's  tortured  root, 
I  on  the  carpet  of  sere  shreds  below, 
And  nigh  the  little  mound  where  lay  that  other, 
I  kiss'd  her  lips  three  times  without  dispute, 
And,  with  bold  worship  suddenly  aglow, 
I  lifted  to  my  lips  a  sandall'd  foot, 
And  kiss'd  it  three  times  thrice  without  dispute. 
Upon  my  head  her  fingers  fell  like  snow, 
Her  lamb-like  hands  about  my  neck  she  wreathed, 
Her  arms  like  slumber  o'er  my  shoulders  crept, 
And  with  her  bosom,  whence  the  azalea  breathed, 
She  did  my  face  full  favourably  smother, 
To  hide  the  heaving  secret  that  she  wept ! 

Now  would  I  keep  my  promise  to  her  Mother ; 
Now  I  arose,  and  raised  her  to  her  feet, 
My  best  Amelia,  fresh-born  from  a  kiss, 
Moth-like,  full-blown  in  birthdew  shuddering  sweet, 
With  great,  kind  eyes,  in  whose  brown  shade 
Bright  Venus  and  her  Baby  play'd  ! 

At  inmost  heart  well  pleased  with  one  another, 
What  time  the  slant  sun  low 
Through  the  plough'd  field  does  each  clod  sharply 

show, 

And  softly  fills 

With  shade  the  dimples  of  our  homeward  hills, 
With  little  said, 

We  left  the  'wilder'd  garden  of  the  dead, 
And  gain'd  the  gorse-lit  shoulder  of  the  down 
That  keeps  the  north-wind  from  the  nestling  town, 
And  caught,  once  more,  the  vision  of  the  wave, 
Where,  on  the  horizon's  dip, 
A  many-sailed  ship 
Pursued  alone  her  distant  purpose  grave ; 


Second  Series  22 1 

And,  by  steep  steps  rock-hewn,  to  the  dim  street 

I  led  her  sacred  feet ; 

And  so  the  Daughter  gave, 

Soft,  moth-like,  sweet, 

Showy  as  damask -rose  and  shy  as  musk, 

Back  to  her  Mother,  anxious  in  the  dusk. 

And  now  *  Good-night  ! ' 

Me  shall  the  phantom  months  no  more  affright. 

For  heaven's  gates  to  open,  well  waits  he 

Who  keeps  himself  the  key. 

C.  Patmore 


O  that  'twere  possible 

After  long  grief  and  pain 

To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 

Round  me  once  again  ! 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixt  with  kisses  sweeter  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  : 

Ah  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 

It  leads  me  forth  at  evening, 

It  lightly  winds  and  steals 

In  a  cold  white  robe  before  me, 

When  all  my  spirit  reels 

At  the  shouts,  the  leagues  of  lights, 

And  the  roaring  of  the  wheels. 


The  Golden   Treasury 

Half  the  night  I  waste  in  sighs, 
Half  in  dreams  I  sorrow  after 
The  delight  of  early  skies  ; 
In  a  wakeful  doze  I  sorrow 
For  the  hand,  the  lips,  the  eyes, 
For  the  meeting  of  the  morrow, 
The  delight  of  happy  laughter, 
The  delight  of  low  replies. 

'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  a  dewy  splendour  falls 
On  the  little  flower  that  clings 
To  the  turrets  and  the  walls ; 
'Tis  a  morning  pure  and  sweet, 
And  the  light  and  shadow  fleet ; , 
She  is  walking  in  the  meadow, 
And  the  woodland  echo  rings  ; 
In  a  moment  we  shall  meet ; 
She  is  singing  in  the  meadow 
And  the  rivulet  at  her  feet 
Ripples  on  in  light  and  shadow 
To  the  ballad  that  she  sings. 

Do  I  hear  her  sing  as  of  old, 

My  bird  with  the  shining  head, 

My  own  dove  with  the  tender  eye  ? 

But  there  rings  on  a  sudden  a  passionate  cry,, 

There  is  some  one  dying  or  dead, 

And  a  sullen  thunder  is  roll'd  ; 

For  a  tumult  shakes  the  city, 

And  I  wake,  my  dream  is  fled ; 

In  the  shuddering  dawn,  behold, 

Without  knowledge,  without  pity, 

By  the  curtains  of  my  bed 

That  abiding  phantom  cold. 

Get  thee  hence,  nor  come  again, 
Mix  not  memory  with  doubt, 
Pass,  thou  deathlike  type  of  pain, 
Pass  and  cease  to  move  about  ! 
3Tis  the  blot  upon  the  brain 
That  will  show  itself  without. 


Second  Series  223 

Then  I  rise,  the  eavedrops  fall, 
And  the  yellow  vapours  choke 
The  great  city  sounding  wide  ; 
The  day  comes,  a  dull  red  ball 
Wrapt  in  drifts  of  lurid  smoke 
On  the  misty  river-tide. 

Thro'  the  hubbub  of  the  market 

I  steal,  a  wasted  frame, 

It  crosses  here,  it  crosses  there, 

Thro'  all  that  crowd  confused  and  loud, 

The  shadow  still  the  same  ; 

And  on  my  heavy  eyelids 

My  anguish  hangs  like  shame. 

Alas  for  her  that  met  me, 

That  heard  me  softly  call, 

Came  glimmering  thro'  the  laurels 

At  the  quiet  evenfall, 

In  the  garden  by  the  turrets 

Of  the  old  manorial  hall. 

Would  the  happy  spirit  descend, 
From  the  realms  of  light  and  song, 
In  the  chamber  or  the  street, 
As  she  looks  among  the  blest, 
Should  I  fear  to  greet  my  friend 
Or  to  say  '  Forgive  the  wrong,5 
Or  to  ask  her,  *  Take  me,  sweet, 
To  the  regions  of  thy  rest '  ? 

But  the  broad  light  glares  and  beats, 

And  the  shadow  flits  and  fleets 

And  will  not  let  me  be  ; 

And  I  loathe  the  squares  and  streets, 

And  the  faces  that  one  meets, 

Hearts  with  no  love  for  me  : 

Always  I  long  to  creep 

Into  some  still  cavern  deep, 

There  to  weep,  and  weep,  and  weep 

My  whole  soul  out  to  thee. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


224  The  Golden  Treasury 

CLXIII 

TO  THE  END 

I  wonder  if  the  Angels 

Love  with  such  love  as  ours, 
If  for  each  other's  sake  they  pluck 

And  keep  eternal  flowers. 

Alone  I  am  and  weary, 

Alone  yet  not  alone  : 
Her  soul  talks  with  me  by  the  way 

From  tedious  stone  to  stone, 
A  blessed  Angel  treads  with  me 

The  awful  paths  unknown. 

If  her  spirit  went  before  me 

Up  from  night  to  day, 
It  would  pass  me  like  the  lightning 

That  kindles  on  its  way. 
I  should  feel  it  like  the  lightning 

Flashing  fresh  from  Heaven  : 
I  should  long  for  Heaven  sevenfold  more. 

Yea  and  sevenfold  seven  : 
Should  pray  as  I  have  not  pray'd  before, 

And  strive  as  I  have  not  striven. 

She  will  learn  new  love  in  Heaven, 

Who  is  so  full  of  love  ; 
She  will  learn  new  depths  of  tenderness 

Who  is  tender  like  a  dove. 

Her  heart  will  no  more  sorrow, 

Her  eyes  will  weep  no  more  : 
Yet  it  may  be  she  will  yearn 
And  look  back  from  far  before  : 
Lingering  on  the  golden  threshold 

And  leaning  from  the  door. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


Second  Series  225 


CLXIV 

THE   ONE  HOPE 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret 
Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is  vain, 
What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 

And  teach  the  unforgetful  to  forget  ? 

Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long  unmet, — 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life-fountain 

And  cull  the  dew-drench'd  flowering  amulet  ? 

Ah  !  when  the  wan  soul  in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown 
Peers  breathless  for  the  gift  of  grace  unknown, — * 
Ah  !  let  none  other  alien  spell  soe'er 
But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there, — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 

D.  G.  Rossetti 


CLXV 

A   DEAD  ROSE 

O  Rose  !  who  dares  to  name  thee  ? 
No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft,  nor  sweet ; 
But  pale,  and  hard,  and  dry,  as  stubble- wheat, — 

Kept   seven   years  in  a  drawer — thy   titles   shame 
thee. 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Between  the  hedge-row  thorns,  and  take  away 
An  odour  up  the  lane  to  last  all  day, — 

If  breathing  now, — unsweeten'd  would  forgo  thee. 

The  sun  that  used  to  smite  thee, 
And  mix  his  glory  in  thy  gorgeous  urn, 
Till  beam  appear'd  to  bloom,  and  flower  to  burn, — 

If  shining  now, — with  not  a  hue  would  light  thee. 


226  TJie  Golden   Treasury 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee, 
And,  white  first,  grow  incarnadined,  because 
It  lay  upon  thee  where  the  crimson  was, — 

If  dropping  now, — would  darken  where  it  met  thee. 

The  fly  that  lit  upon  thee, 
To  stretch  the  tendrils  of  its  tiny  feet, 
Along  thy  leafs  pure  edges,  after  heat, — 

Jf  lighting  now,  — would  coldly  overrun  thee. 

The  bee  that  once  did  suck  thee, 
And  build  thy  perfumed  ambers  up  his  hive, 
And  swoon  in  thee  for  joy,  till  scarce  alive, — 

If  passing  now, — would  blindly  overlook  thee. 

The  heart  doth  recognize  thee, 
Alone,  alone  !     The  heajt  doth  smell  thee  sweet, 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth  judge  thee  most  complete- 
Though  seeing  now  those  changes  that  disguise  thee, 

E.  B.  Browning 


CLXVI 
LOST  DA  YS 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 

Lie  as  they  fell  ?     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squander'd  and  still  to  pay  ? 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 

Or  such  spilt  water  as  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 

I  do  not  see  them  here  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murder'd  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
' 1  am  thyself, — what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ?* 

'And  I— and  I— thyself,'  (lo  !  each  one  saith,) 
*  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  ! ' 

1\  G.  Rossetti 


Second  Series  227 

CLXVII 
THE  SUMMER  IS  ENDED 

Wreathe  no  more  lilies  in  my  hair, 
For  I  am  dying,  Sister  sweet : 
Or,  if  you  will  for  the  last  time 

Indeed,  why  make  me  fair 

Once  for  my  winding-sheet. 

Pluck  no  more  roses  for  my  breast, 
For  I  like  them  fade  in  my  prime  : 
Or,  if  you  will,  why  pluck  them  still, 

That  they  may  share  my  rest 

Once  more  for  the  last  time. 

Weep  not  for  me  when  I  am  gone, 
Dear  tender  one,  but  hope  and  smile  : 
Or,  if  you  cannot  choose  but  weep, 

A  little  while  weep  on, 

Only  a  little  while. 

C.  G.  Rossetti. 


CLXVIII 

RETURNING  HOME 

To  leave  unseen  so  many  a  glorious  sight, 
To  leave  so  many  lands  unvisited, 
To  leave  so  many  worthiest  books  unread, 
Unrealized  so  many  visions  bright  ; — 

Oh  !  wretched  yet  inevitable  spite 
Of  our  brief  span,  that  we  must  yield  our  breath, 
And  wrap  us  in  the  unfeeling  coil  of  death, 
So  much  remaining  of  unproved  delight. 

But  hush,  my  soul,  and  vain  regrets,  be  still'd  ; 
Find  rest  in  Him  who  is  the  complement 
Of  whatsoe'er  transcends  our  mortal  doom, 
Of  baffled  hope  and  unfulfilPd  intent  ; 
In  the  clear  vision  and  aspect  of  whom 
All  longings  and  all  hopes  shall  be  fulfill 'd. 

R.  C.  Archbishop  Trench 


228  The  Golden  Treasury 


IN  A   LONDON  SQUARE 

Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane, 

East  wind  and  frost  are  safely  gone  ; 
With  zephyr  mild  and  balmy  rain 

The  summer  comes  serenely  on  ; 
Earth,  air,  and  sun  and  skies  combine 

To  promise  all  that's  kind  and  fair  :— 
But  thou,  O  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  contain  thyself,  and  bear. 

December  days  were  brief  and  chill, 

The  winds  of  March  were  wild  and  drear, 
And,  nearing  and  receding  still, 

Spring  never  would,  we  thought,  be  here. 
The  leaves  that  burst,  the  suns  that  shine, 

Had,  not  the  less,  their  certain  date  : — 
And  thou,  O  human  heart  of  mine, 

Be  still,  refrain  thyself,  and  wait. 

A.  H.  dough 


CLXX 

LASCIATE   OGNI  SPERANZA  .  .  . 

I  am  !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows  ? 
My  friends  forsake  me,  like  a  memory  lost. 
I  am  the  self-consumer  of  my  woes, 
They  rise  and  vanish,  an  oblivious  host, 
Shadows  of  life,  whose  very  soul  is  lost. 
And  yet  I  am — I  live — though  I  am  toss'd 

Into  the  nothingness  of  scorn  and  noise, 

Into  the  living  sea  of  waking  dream, 

Where  there  is  neither  sense  of  life,  nor  joys, 

But  the  huge  shipwreck  of  my  own  esteem 

And  all  that's  dear.     Even  those  I  loved  the  best 

Are  strange — nay,  they  are  stranger  than  the  rest. 


Second  Series  229 

I  long  for  scenes  where  man  has  never  trod — 
For  scenes  where  woman  never  smiled  or  wept — 
There  to  abide  with  my  Creator,  God, 
And  sleep  as  I  in  childhood  sweetly  slept, 
Full  of  high  thoughts,  unborn.     So  let  me  lie. 
The  grass  below  ;  above,  the  vaulted  sky. 

/.  Clare 


CLXXI 

THE  BOURNE 

Underneath  the  growing  grass, 

Underneath  the  living  flowers, 
Deeper  than  the  sound  of  showers : 
There  we  shall  not  count  the  hours 

By  the  shadows  as  they  pass. 

Youth  and  health  will  be  but  vain, 
Beauty  reckon'd  of  no  worth  : 
There  a  very  little  girth 
Can  hold  round  what  once  the  earth 

Seem'd  too  narrow  to  contain. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


CLXXII 

SONG 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest, 

Sing  no  sad  songs  for  me ; 
Plant  thou  no  roses  at  my  head, 

Nor  shady  cypress  tree  : 
Be  the  green  grass  above  me 

With  showers  and  dewdrops  wet  : 
And  if  thou  wilt,  remember, 

And  if  thou  wilt,  forget. 


230  The  Golden   Treasury 

I  shall  not  see  the  shadows, 

I  shall  not  feel  the  rain  ; 
I  shall  not  hear  the  nightingale 

Sing  on,  as  if  in  pain  : 
And  dreaming  through  the  twilight 

That  doth  not  rise  nor  set, 
Haply  I  may  remember, 

And  haply  may  forget. 

C.  G.  Rossetti 


CLXXIII 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  TEARS 

If  you  go  over  desert  and  mountain, 
Far  into  the  country  of  sorrow, 
To-day  and  to-night  and  to-morrow, 

And  maybe  for  months  and  for  years ; 

You  shall  come,  with  a  heart  that  is  bursting 
For  trouble  and  toiling  and  thirsting, 

You  shall  certainly  come  to  the  fountain 

At  length,— to  the  Fountain  of  Tears. 

Very  peaceful  the  place  is,  and  solely 
For  piteous  lamenting  and  sighing, 
And  those  who  come  living  or  dying 

Alike  from  their  hopes  and  their  fears  ; 
Full  of  cypress-like  shadows  the  place  is, 
And  statues  that  cover  their  faces  : 

But  out  of  the  gloom  springs  the  holy 

And  beautiful  Fountain  of  Tears. 

And  it  flows  and  it  flows  with  a  motion 

So  gentle  and  lovely  and  listless, 

And  murmurs  a  tune  so  resistless 
To  him  who  hath  suffer'd  and  hears— 

You  shall  surely— without  a  word  spoken, 

Kneel  down  there  and  know  your  heart  broken 
And  yield  to  the  long  curb'd  emotion 
That  day  by  the  Fountain  of  Tears. 


Second  Series  231 

For  it  grows  and  it  grows,  as  though  leaping 
Up  higher  the  more  one  is  thinking ; 
And  ever  its  tunes  go  on  sinking 

More  poignantly  into  the  ears  : 

Yea,  so  blessed  and  good  seems  that  fountain, 
Reach'd  after  dry  desert  and  mountain, 

You  shall  fall  down  at  length  in  your  weeping 

And  bathe  your  sad  face  in  the  tears. 

Then,  alas  !  while  you  lie  there  a  season, 

And  sob  between  living  and  dying, 

And  give  up  the  land  you  were  trying 
To  find  'mid  your  hopes  arid  your  fears ; 

— O  the  world  shall  come  up  and  pass  o'er  you  ; 

Strong  men  shall  not  stay  to  care  for  you, 
Nor  wonder  indeed  for  what  reason 
Your  way  should  seem  harder  than  theirs. 

But  perhaps,  while  you  lie,  never  lifting 
Your  cheek  from  the  wet  leaves  it  presses, 
Nor  caring  to  raise  your  wet  tresses 

And  look  how  the  cold  world  appears, — 
O  perhaps  the  mere  silences  round  you — 
All  things  in  that  place  grief  hath  found  you, 

Yea,  e'en  to  the  clouds  o'er  you  drifting, 

May  soothe  you  somewhat  through  your  tears. 

You  may  feel,  when  a  falling  leaf  brushes 

Your  face,  as  though  some  one  had  kiss'chyou, 
Or  think  at  least  some  one  who  miss'd  you 

Hath  sent  you  a  thought, — if  that  cheers  ; 
Or  a  bird's  little  song,  faint  and  broken, 
May  pass  for  a  tender  word  spoken  : 

— Enough,  while  around  you  there  rushes 

That  life-drowning  torrent  of  tears. 

And  the  tears  shall  flow  faster  and  faster, 
Brim  over,  and  baffle  resistance, 
And  roll  down  blear'd  roads  to  each  distance 

Of  past  desolation  and  years  ; 

Till  they  cover  the  place  of  each  sorrow, 
And  leave  you  no  Past  and  no  morrow  : 

For  what  man  is  able  to.  master 

And  stem  the  great  Fountain  of  Tears  ? 


232  The  Golden   Treasury 

But  the  floods  of  the  tears  meet  and  gather  ; 

The  sound  of  them  all  grows  like  thunder  * 

— O  into  what  bosom  I  wonder, 
Is  pour'd  the  whole  sorrow  of  years  ? 

For  Eternity  only  seems  keeping 

Account  of  the  great  human  weeping  : 
May  God,  then,  the  Maker  and  Father — 
May  He  find  a  place  for  the  tears  ! 

A.  0*  Shaughnessy 


CLXXIV 

THE  WRECK 

Hide  me,  Mother  !  my  Fathers  belong'd  to  the  church 

of  old, 
I  am  driven  by  storm  and  sin  and  death  to  the  ancient 

fold, 
I  cling  to  the  Catholic  Cross  once  more,  to  the  Faith 

that  saves, 
My  brain  is  full  of  the  crash  of  wrecks,  and  the  roar 

of  waves, 

My  life  itself  is  a  wreck,  I  have  sullied  a  noble  name, 
I  am  flung  from  the  rushing  tide  of  the  world  as  a 

waif  of  shame, 
I  am  roused  by  the  wail  of  a  child,  and  awake  to  a 

livid  light, 
And  a  ghastlier  face  than  ever  has  haunted  a  grave  by 

night, 
I  would  hide  from  the  storm  without,  I  would  flee 

from  the  storm  within, 
I  would  make  my  life  one  prayer  for  a  soul  that  died 

in  his  sin, 
I  was  the  tempter,  Mother,  and  mine  was  the  deeper 

fall ; 
I  will  sit  at  your  feet,  I  will  hide  my  face,  I  will  tell 

you  all. 

He  that  they  gave  me  to,   Mother,   a  heedless  and 

innocent  bride — 
I  never  have  wrong'd  his  heart,  I  have  only  wounded 

his  pride — 


Second  Series  233 

Spain  in  his  blood  and  the  Jew dark-visaged,  stately 

and  tall— 
A  princelier-looking  man  never  stept  thro'  a  Prince's 

hall. 
And  who,  when  his  anger  was  kindled,  would  venture 

to  give  him  the  nay  ? 
And  a  man  men  fear  is  a  man  to  be  loved  by  the 

women  they  say. 
And  I  could  have  loved  him  too,  if  the  blossom  can 

doat  on  the  blight, 
Or  the  young  green  leaf  rejoice  in  the  frost  that  sears 

it  at  night ; 
He  would  open  the  books  that  I  prized,  and  toss  them 

away  with  a  yawn, 
Repeli'd  by  the  magnet  of  Art  to  the  which  my  nature 

was  drawn, 
The  word  of  the  Poet  by  whom  the  deeps  of  the  world 

are  stirr'd, 
The  music  that  robes   it   in   language   beneath   and 

beyond  the  word  ! 
iVf  y  Shelley  would  fall  from  my  hands  when  he  cast  a 

contemptuous  glance 
From  where  he  was  poring  over  his  Tables  of  Trade 

and  Finance ; 
My  hands,  when  I  heard  him  coming,  would  drop  from 

the  chords  or  the  keys, 
But  ever  I  fail'd  to  please  him,  however  I  strove  to 

please — 

All  day  long  far-off  in  the  cloud  of  the  city,  and  there 
Lost,  head  and  heart,  in  the  chances  of  dividend,  consol, 

and  share — 
And  at  home  if  I  sought  for  a  kindly  caress,  being 

woman  and  weak, 

His  formal  kiss  fell  chill  as  a  flake  of  snow  on  the  cheek  : 
And  so,  when  I  bore  him  a  girl,  when  I  held  it  aloft 

in  my  joy, 
He  look'd  at  it  coldly,  and  said  to  me  '  Pity  it  isn't  a 

boy.' 
The  one  thing  given  me,  to  love  and  to  live  for,  glanced 

at  in  scorn  ! 
The  child  that  I  felt  I  could  die  for — as  if  she  were 

basely  born  ! 


234  The  Golden  Treasury 

I  had  lived  a  wild-flower  life,  I  was  planted  now  in  a 

tomb ; 
The  daisy  will  shut  to  the  shadow,  I  closed  my  heart 

to  the  gloom  ; 
I  threw  myself  all  abroad — I  would  play  my  part  with 

the  young 
By  the  low  foot-lights  of  the  world — and  I  caught  the 

wreath  that  was  flung. 


Mother,  I  have  not — however  their  tongues  may  have 

babbled  of  me — 
Sinnd  thro'  an  animal  vileness,  for  all  but  a  dwarf 

was  he, 
And  all  but  a  hunchback  too ;  and  I  look'd  at  him, 

first,  askance, 
With  pity — not  he  the  knight  for  an  amorous  girl's 

romance  ! 
Tho5  wealthy  enough  to  have  bask'd  in  the  light  of  a 

dowerless  smile, 

Having  lands  at  home  and  abroad  in  a  rich  West- 
Indian  isle ; 
But  I  came  on  him  once  at  a  ball,   the  heart  of  a 

listening  crowd — 

Why,  what  a  brow  was  there  !  he  was  seated — speak- 
ing aloud 
To  women,  the  flower  of  the  time,  and  men  at  the 

helm  of  state — 
Flowing  with  easy  greatness  and  touching  on  all  things 

great, 
Science,  philosophy,  song — till  I  felt  myself  ready  to 

weep 
For  I  knew  not  what,  when  I  heard  that  voice, — as 

mellow  and  deep 
As  a  psalm  by  a  mighty  master  and  peal'd  from  an 

organ, — roll 
Rising   and  falling — for,   Mother,  the  voice  was  the 

voice  of  the  soul ; 
And  the  sun  of  the  soul  made  day  in  the  dark  of  his 

wonderful  eyes. 
Here  was  the  hand  that  would  help  me,  would  heal 

me — the  heart  that  was  wise ,' 


Second  Series  235 

.\nd  he,  poor  man,  when  he  learnt  that  I  hated  the 

ring  I  wore, 
He  helpt  me  with  death,  and  he  heal'd  me  with  sorrow 

for  evermore. 

For  I  broke  the  bond.    That  day  my  nurse  had  brought 

me  the  child. 
The  small  sweet  face  was  flush'd,  but  it  coo'd  to  the 

Mother  and  smiled. 
'Anything  ailing,'  I  ask'd  her,   'with  baby?'      She 

shook  her  head, 
And  the  Motherless  Mother  kiss'd  it,  and  turn'd  in 

her  haste  and  fled. 

Low  warm  winds  had  gently  breathed  us  away  from 

the  land- 
Ten  long  sweet  summer  days  upon  deck,  sitting  hand 

in  hand — 
When  he  clothed  a  naked  mind  with  the  wisdom  and 

wealth  of  his  own, 
And  I  bow'd  myself  down  as  a  slave  to  his  intellectual 

throne, 
When  he  coin'd  into  English  gold  some  treasure  of 

classical  song, 
When  he  flouted  a  statesman's  error,  or  flamed  at  a 

public  wrong, 
When  he  rose  as  it  were  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle 

beyond  me,  and  past 
Over  the  range  and  the  change  of  the  world  from  the 

first  to  the  last, 
When  he  spoke  of  his  tropical  home  in  the  canes  by 

the  purple  tide, 

And  the  high  star-crowns  of  his  palms  on  the  deep- 
wooded  mountain-side, 
And  cliffs  all  robed  in  lianas  that  dropt  to  the  brink  of 

his  bay, 
And  trees  like  the  towers  of  a  minster,  the  sons  of  a 

winterless  day. 
'  Paradise  there  ! '  so  he  said,  but  I  seem'd  in  Paradise 

then 
With  the  first  great  love  I  had  felt  for  the  first  and 

greatest  of  men ; 


236  The  Golden   Treasury 

Ten  long   days   of  summer   and   sin — if  it  must  be 

so — 
But  days  of  a  larger  light  than   I  ever   again  shall 

know — 
Days  that  will  glimmer,  I  fear,  thro'  life  to  my  latest 

breath ; 
'No  frost  there,'  so  he  said,   'as  in  truest  Love  no 

Death.' 

Mother,  one  morning  a  bird  with  a  warble  plaintively 

sweet 
Perch'd  on  the  shrouds,  and  then  fell  fluttering  down 

at  my  feet ; 
I  took  it,  he  made  it  a  cage,  we  fondled  it,  Stephen 

and  I, 
But  it  died,  and  I  thought  of  the  child  for  a  moment, 

I  scarce  know  why. 

But  if  sin  be  sin,  not  inherited  fate,  as  many  will 

say, 
My  sin  to  my  desolate,  little  one  found  me  at  sea  on  a 

day, 
When  her  orphan  wail  came  borne  in  the  shriek  of  a 

growing  wind, 
And  a  voice  rang  out  in  the  thunders  of  Ocean  and 

Heaven  'Thou  hast  sinn'd.' 
And  down  in  the  cabin  were  we,   for  the  towering 

crest  of  the  tides 
Plunged  on  the  vessel  and  swept  in  a  cataract  off  from 

her  sides, 
And  ever  the  great  storm  grew  with  a  howl  and  a 

hoot  of  the  blast 
In  the  rigging,  voices  of  hell — then  came  the  crash  of 

the  mast. 
'  The  wages  of  sin  is  death,'  and  there  I  began  to 

weep, 
'  I  am  the  Jonah,  the  crew  should  cast  me  into  the 

deep, 
For  ah  God,  what  a  heart  was  mine  to  forsake  her 

even  for  you.' 
'  Never  the  heart  among  women,'   he  said,   '  more 

tender  and  true.' 


Second  Series  237 

'  The  heart !  not  a  mother's  heart,  when  I  left  my 

darling  alone.' 
/Comfort  yourself,  for  the  heart  of  the  father  will 

care  for  his  own.' 
*  The  heart  of  the  father  will  spurn  her,'  I  cried,  l  for 

the  sin  of  the  wife, 
The  cloud  of  the  mother's  shame  will  enfold  her  and 

darken  her  life.' 
Then  his  pale  face  t  witch' d;  *  O  Stephen,  I  love  you, 

I  love  you,  and  yet ' — 
As  I  lean'd  away  from  his  arms — *  would  God,  we  had 

never  met  ! ' 
And  he  spoke  not — only  the  storm  ;  till  after  a  little, 

I  yearn'd 
For  his  voice  again,  and  he  call'd  to  me  *  Kiss  me  ! ' 

and  there — as  I  turn'd — 
'  The  heart,  the  heart  ! '  I  kiss'd  him,  I  clung  to  the 

sinking  form, 
And  the  storm  went  roaring  above  us,  and  he — was 

out  of  the  storm. 


And  then,  then,  Mother,  the  ship  stagger'd  under  a 

thunderous  shock, 
That  shook  us  asunder,  as  if  she  had  struck  and  crash'd 

on  a  rock ; 
For  a  huge  sea  smote  every  soul  from  the  decks  of 

The  Falcon  but  one  ; 
All  of  them,  all  but  the  man  that  was  lash'd  to  the 

helm  had  gone  ! 
And  I  fell— and  the  storm  and  the  days  went  by,  but 

I  knew  no  more — 
Lost  myself— lay  like  the  dead  by  the  dead  on  the 

cabin  floor, 
Dead  to  the  death  beside  me,  and  lost  to  the  loss  that 

was  mine, 
With  a  dim  dream,  now  and  then,  of  a  hand  giving 

bread  and  wine, 
Till  I  woke  from  the  trance,  and  the  ship  stood  still, 

and  the  skies  were  blue, 
But  the  face  I  had  known,  O  Mother,  was  not  the 

face  that  I  knew. 


238  The  Golden  Treasury 

The  strange  misfeaturing  mask  that  I  saw  so  amazed 

me,  that  I 
Stumbled  on  deck,  half  mad.     I  would  fling  myself 

over  and  die  ! 
But  one — he  was  waving  a  flag — the  one  man  left  on 

the  wreck — 
'Woman' — he  graspt   at    my   arm — *  stay  there' — I 

crouch'd  upon  deck — 
'We  are  sinking,  and  yet  there's  hope  :  look  yonder,' 

he  cried,  '  a  sail ' 
In  a  tone  so  rough  that  I  broke  into  passionate  tears, 

and  the  wail 
Of  a  beaten  babe,  till  I  saw  that  a  boat  was  near  ing 

us — then 
All  on  a  sudden  I  thought,  I  shall  look  on  the  child 

again. 

They  lower'd  me  down  the  side,  and  there  in  the  boat 

Hay 
With  sad  eyes  fixt  on  the  lost  sea-home,  as  we  glided 

away, 
And  I  sigh'd,  as  the  low  dark  hull  dipt  under  the 

smiling  main, 
'  Had  I  stay'd  with  him,  I  had  now — with  him — been 

out  of  my  pain.' 

They  took  us  aboard  :  the  crew  were  gentle,  the  captain 
kind  ; 

But  /  was  the  only  slave  of  an  often- wandering  mind  ; 

For  whenever  a  rougher  gust  might  tumble  a  stormier 
wave, 

'  O  Stephen,'  I  moan'd  '  I  am  coming  to  thee  in  thine 
Ocean-grave.' 

And  again,  when  a  balmier  breeze  curl'd  over  a  peace- 
fuller  sea, 

I  found  myself  moaning  again  '  O  child,  I  am  coming 
to  thee.' 

The  broad  white  brow  of  the  Isle— that  bay  with  the 

colour' d  sand — 
Rich  was  the  rose  of  sunset  there,  as  we  drew  to  the 

land; 


Second  Series  239 

All  so  quiet  the  ripple  would  hardly  blanch  into  spray 
At  the  feet  of  the  cliff;  and  I  pray'd — '  my  child  ' — 

for  I  still  could  pray — 
1  May  her  life  be  as  blissfully  calm,  be  never  gloom'd 

by  the  curse 
Of  a  sin,  not  hers  ! ' 

Was  it  well  with  the  child  ? 

I  wrote  to  the  nurse 
Who  had  borne  my  flower  on  her  hireling  heart ;  and 

an  answer  came 
Not  from  the  nurse — nor  yet  to  the  wife — to  her  maiden 

name  ! 
I  shook  as  I  open'd  the  letter — I  knew  that  hand  too 

well— 
And  from  it  a  scrap,  clipt  out  of  the  *  deaths '  in  a 

paper,  fell. 
{ Ten  long  sweet  summer  days '  of  fever,  and  want  of 

care  ! 
And  gone — that  day  of  the  storm — O  Mother,  she 

came  to  me  there. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


ELLEN  BRINE   OF  ALLENBURN 

Noo  soul  did  hear  her  lips  complain, 
An'  she's  a-gone  vrom  all  her  pain, 
An'  others'  loss  to  her  is  gain, 
For  she  do  live  in  heaven's  love  ; 
Vull  many  a  longsome  day  an'  week 
She  bore  her  ailen,  still,  an'  meek  ; 
A-worken  while  her  strangth  held  on 
An'  guiden  housework,  when  'twer  gone. 
Vor  Ellen  Brine  ov  Allenburn 
Oh  !  there  be  souls  to  murn. 

The  last  time  I'd  a-cast  my  zight 
Upon  her  feace,  a-feaded  white, 
Wer  in  a  zummer's  mornen  light 
In  hall  avore  the  smwold'ren  vier, 


240  The  Golden  Treasury 

The  while  the  childern  beat  the  vloor, 
In  play,  wi'  tiny  shoes  they  wore, 
An'  call'd  their  mother's  eyes  to  view 
The  feats  their  little  limbs  could  do. 
Oh  !  Ellen  Brine  ov  Allenburn, 
They  childern  now  mus'  murn. 

Then  woone,  a-stoppen  vrom  his  reace, 
Went  up,  an'  on  her  knee  did  pleace 
His  hand,  a-looken  in  her  feace, 
An'  wi'  a  smilen  mouth  so  small, 
He  said,  *  You  promised  us  to  goo 
To  Shroton  fea'ir,  an'  teake  us  two  ! ' 
She  heard  it  wi'  her  two  white  ears, 
An'  in  her  eyes  there  sprung  two  tears, 
Vor  Ellen  Brine  ov  Allenburn 
Did  veel  that  they  mus'  murn. 

September  come,  wi'  Shroton  feair, 
But  Ellen  Brine  wer  never  there  ! 
A  heavy  heart  wer  on  the  meare, 
Their  father  rod  his  hwomeward  road. 
'Tis  true  he  brought  zome  fearens  back, 
Vor  them  two  childern  all  in  black  ; 
But  they  had  now,  wi'  playthings  new, 
Noo  mother  vor  to  shew  em  to, 
Vor  Ellen  Brine  ov  Allenburn 
Would  never  mwore  return. 

W.  Barnes 


CLXXVI 

GOING  HOME 

The  ancient  river  glimmer'd  in  its  bed, 
High  overhead  the  stars  of  Egypt  burn'd, 
When  our  slow-dying  Edith  join'd  trie  dead  ; 
She  whom  the  Arab  and  the  Nubian  mourn'd  : 
How  in  the  shadow  of  old  Thebes  we  wept, 
And  down  the  long-drawn  Nile  from  day  to  day  5 
Her  sweet  face  gone — her  bright  hair  hid  away 
Save  what  the  ring  or  gleaming  locket  kept ; 


Second  Series  24! 

And,  when  we  felt  the  Midland  waters  rise 
Beneath  our  keel,  and  England  nearer  come — 
'Mid  our  forecasting  questions  and  replies, 
Back  came  the  sorrow  like  a  sad  surprise ; 
Those  dear  white  cliffs  would  never  greet  her  eyes, 
Nor  her  cheek  flush,  to  find  herself  at  home. 

C.  Tennysm-Turnti 


CLXXVII 
IN  MEMORIAM 

}Tis  right  for  her  to  sleep  between 
Some  of  those  old  Cathedral  walls, 

And  right  too  that  her  grave  is  green 
With  all  the  dew  and  rain  that  falls. 

'Tis  well  the  organ's  solemn  sighs 
Should  soar  and  sink  around  her  rest, 

And  almost  in  her  ear  should  rise 
The  prayers  of  those  she  loved  the  best. 

'Tis  also  well  this  air  is  stirr'd 
-    By  Nature's  voices  loud  and  low, 
By  thunder  and  the  chirping  bird, 
And  grasses  whispering  as  they  grow. 

For  all  her  spirit's  earthly  course 

Was  as  a  lesson  and  a  sign 
How  to  o'errule  the  hard  divorce 

That  parts  things  natural  and  divine. 

Undaunted  by  the  clouds  of  fear, 

Undazzled  by  a  happy  day,    * 
She  made  a  Heaven  about  her  here, 

And  took  how  much  !  with  her  away. 

R.  M.  (Milnes)  Lord  Houghton 


242  The  Golden   Treasury 

CLXXVIII 

TO  ,   ON  HER  SISTER'S  DEATH 

O  Thou,  whose  dim  and  tearful  gaze 
Dwells  on  the  shade  of  blessings  gone  ! 

Whose  fancy  some  lost  form  surveys, 
Half-deeming  it  once  more  thine  own  ; 

O  check  that  shuddering  sob,  control 
That  lip  all  quivering  with  despair ; 

The  thrillings  of  the  startled  soul 

That  wakes  and  finds  no  loved  one  there. 

Yet  though  no  more  she  share,  her  love 
Thy  way  of  woe  still  guides  and  cheers  ; 

And  from  her  cup  of  bliss  above 
One  drop  she  mingles  with  thy  tears. 

/.  Keble 

CLXXIX 

CONSOLATIONS  IN  BEREAVEMENT 

Death  was  full  urgent  with  thee,  Sister  dear, 

And  startling  in  his  speed  ; — 
Brief  pain,  then  languor  till  thy  end  came  near — 
Such  was  the  path  decreed, 
.9T*     The  hurried  road 

To  lead  thy  soul  from  earth    to    thine    own   God's 
abode. 

Death  wrought  with  thee,  sweet  maid,  impatiently : — 

Yet  merciful  the  haste 
That  baffles  sickness  ; — dearest,  thou  didst  die, 

Thou  wast  not  made  to  taste 
Death's  bitterness, 
Decline's  slow- wasting  charm,  or  fever's  fierce  distress. 


Second  Series  243 

Death  came  unheralded  : — but  it  was  well ; 

For  so  thy  Saviour  bore 

Kind  witness,  thou  wast  meet  at  once  to  dwell 
On  His  eternal  shore  ; 

All  warning  spared, 

For  none  He  gives  where  hearts  are  for  prompt  change 
prepared. 

Death  wrought  in  mystery  ;  both  complaint  and  cure 

To  human  skill  unknown  : — 
God  put  aside  all  means,  to  make  us  sure 
It  was  His  deed  alone  ; 

Lest  we  should  lay 

Reproach  on  our  poor  selves,  that  thou  wast  caught 
away. 

Death  urged  as  scant  of  time  : — lest,  Sister  dear, 

We  many  a  lingering  day 
Had  sicken'd  with  alternate  hope  and  fear, 

The  ague  of  delay  ; 


Watching  each  spark 
Of  promise  quench'd  in  turn,  till  all 


our  sky  was  dark. 


Death  came  and  went : — that  so  thy  image  might 

Our  yearning  hearts  possess, 
Associate  with  all  pleasant  thoughts  and  bright, 

With  youth  and  loveliness  ; 
Sorrow  can  claim, 
Mary,  nor  lot  nor  part  in  thy  soft  soothing  name. 

Joy  of  sad  hearts,  and  light  of  downcast  eyes  ! 

Dearest,  thou  art  enshrined 
In  all  thy  fragrance  in  our  memories  ; 
For  we  must  ever  find 

Bare  thought  of  thee 
Freshen  this  weary  life,  while  weary  life  shall  be. 

J.  ff.  Card.  Newman 


244  The  Golden  Treasury 

CLXXX 
RIZPAH 


Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and 

sea  — 
And  Willy's  voice  in  the  wind,  *  O  mother,  come  out 

to  me.J 
Why  should  he  call  me  to-night,  when  he  knows  that 

I  cannot  go  ? 
For  the  downs  are  as  bright  as  day,   and  the   full 

moon  stares  at  the  snow. 

We  should  be  seen,  my  dear  ;  they  would  spy  us  out 

of  the  town. 
The  loud  black  nights  for  us,  and  the  storm  rushing 

over  the  down, 
When  I  cannot  see  my  own  hand,  but  am  led  by  the 

creak  of  the  chain, 
And  grovel  and  grope  for  my  son  till  I  find  myself 

drench'd  with  the  rain. 

Anything  fallen  again?  nay  —  what  was  there  left  to 

fall? 
I  have  taken  them  home,  I  have  numbered  the  bones, 

I  have  hidden  them  all. 
What  am  I  saying  ?  and  what  are  you  ?  do  you  come 

as  a  spy  ? 
Falls  ?  what  falls  ?  who  knows  ?    As  the  tree  falls  so 

must  it  lie. 

Who  let  her  in  ?  how  long  has  she  been  ?  you  —  what 

have  you  heard  ? 
Why  did  you  sit  so  quiet  ?  you  never  have  spoken  a 

word. 
O  —  to   pray   with   me  —  yes  —  a  lady  —  none   of   their 

spies  — 
But  the  night  has  crept  into  my  heart,  and  begun  to 

darken  my  eyes. 


Second  Series  245 

Ah — you,  that  have  lived  so  soft,  what  should  you 

know  of  the  night, 
The  blast  and  the  burning  shame  and  the  bitter  frost 

and  the  fright  ? 
I  have  done  it,  while  you  were  asleep — you  were  only 

made  for  the  day. 
I  have  gather'd  my  baby  together — and  now  you  may 

go  your  way. 

Nay,— for  it's  kind  of  you,  Madam,  to  sit  by  an  old 

dying  wife. 
But  say  nothing  hard  of  my  boy,  I  have  only  an  hour 

of  life. 
I  kiss'd  my  boy  in  the  prison,  before  he  went  out  to 

die. 
*  They  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said,  and  he  never  has 

told  me  a  lie. 
I  whipt  him  for  robbing  an  orchard  once  when  he 

was  but  a  child — 
'  The  farmer  dared  me  to  do  it,'  he  said ;   he  was 

always  so  wild — 
And  idle — and  couldn't  be  idle— my  Willy — he  never 

could  rest. 
The  King  should  have  made  him  a  soldier,  he  would 

have  been  one  of  his  best. 

But  he  lived  with  a  lot  of  wild  mates,  and  they  never 

would  let  him  be  good ; 
They  swore  that  he  dare  not  rob  the  mail,  and  he 

swore  that  he  would  ; 
And  he  took  no  life,  but  he  took  one  purse,  and  when 

all  was  done 
He  flung  it  among  his  fellows — I'll  none  of  it,  said  my 


I  came  into  court  to  the  Judge  and  the  lawyers.     I 

told  them  my  tale, 
God's  own  truth — but  they  kill'd  him,  they  kill'd  him 

for  robbing  the  mail. 
They  hang'd  him  in  chains  for  a  show — we  had  always 

borne  a  good  name — 
To  be  hang'd  for  a  thief— and  then  put  away — isn't 

that  enough  shame  ? 


246  The  Golden   Treasury 

Dust  to  dust — low  down — let  us  hide  !  but  they  set 

him  so  high 
That  all  the  ships  of  the  world  could  stare  at  him, 

passing  by. 
God  'ill   pardon   the   hell -black    raven   and   horrible 

fowls  of  the  air, 
But  not  the  black  heart  of  the  lawyer  who  kill'd  him 

and  hang'd  him  there. 

And  the  jailer  forced  me  away.     I  had  bid  him  my 

last  good-bye  ; 
They  had  fasten'd  the  door  of  his  cell.     '  G  mother  ! ' 

I  heard  him  cry. 
I  couldn't   get  back   tho'  I  tried,  he  had  something 

further  to  say, 
And  now  I  never  shall  know  it.     The  jailer  forced  me 

away. 

Then  since  I  couldn't  but  hear  that  cry  of  my  boy  that 

was  dead, 
They  seized  me  and  shut  me  up :  they  fasten'd  me 

down  on  my  bed. 
*  Mother,  O  mother  ! ' — he  call'd  in  the  dark  to  me 

year  after  year — 
They  beat  me  for  that,  they  beat  me — you  know  that 

I  couldn't  but  hear  ; 
And  then  at  the  last  they  found  I  had  grown  so  stupid 

and  still 
They  let  me  abroad    again — but   the   creatures  had 

worked  their  will. 

Flesh  of  my  flesh  was  gone,  but  bone  of  my  bone  was 

left— 
I  stole  them  all  from  the  lawyers — and  you,  will  you 

call  it  a  theft  ?— 
My  baby,  the  bones  that  had  suck'd  me,  the  bones 

that  had  laugh'd  and  had  cried — 
Theirs  ?     O  no  !  they  are  mine — not  theirs — they  had 

moved  in  my  side. 

Do  you  think  I  was  scared  by  the  bones?     I  kiss'd 

'em,  I  buried  'em  all — 

I  can't  dig  deep,  I  am  old — in  the  night  by  the  church- 
yard wall. 


Second  Series  247 

My  Willy  'ill  rise  up  whole  when  the  trumpet  of  judg- 
ment 'ill  sound, 

But  I  charge  you  never  to  say  that  I  laid  him  in  holy 
ground. 

They  would  scratch  him  up — they  would  hang  him 

again  on  the  cursed  tree. 

Sin  ?     O  yes — we  are  sinners,  I  know — let  all  that  be, 
And  read  me  a  Bible  verse  of  the  Lord's  good  will 

toward  men — 
*  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy,  the  Lord ' — let  me 

hear  it  again ; 
'  Full  of  compassion  and  mercy — long-suffering.'  Yes, 

0  yes  ! 

For  the  lawyer  is  born  but  to  murder — the  Saviour 

.  lives  but  to  bless. 
He'll  never  put  on  the  black  cap  except  for  the  worst 

of  the  worst, 
And  the  first  may  be  last — I  have  heard  it  in  church 

— and  the  last  may  be  first. 
Suffering — O  long-suffering — yes,   as   the  Lord  must 

know, 
Year  after  year   in   the  mist  and  the  wind  and  the 

shower  and  the  snow. 

Heard,  have  you  ?  what  ?  they  have  told  you  he  never 

repented  his  sin. 
How  do  they  know  it  ?  are  they  his  mother  ?  are  you 

of  his  kin  ? 
Heard  !  have  you  ever  heard,  when  the  storm  on  the 

downs  began, 
The  wind  that  'ill  wail  like  a  child  and  the  sea  that 

'ill  moan  like  a  man  ? 

Election,    Election   and   Reprobation— it's    all     very 

well. 
But  I  go  to-night  to  my  boy,  and  I  shall  not  find  him 

in  Hell. 
For  I  cared  so  much  for  my  boy  that  the  Lord  has 

look'd  into  my  care, 
And  He  means  me  I'm  sure  to  be  happy,  with  Willy, 

1  know  not  where. 


248  The  Golden  Treasury 

And  if  he  be  lost — but  to  save  my  soul,  that  is  all 

your  desire : 
Do  you  think  that  I  care  for  my  soul  if  my  boy  be 

gone  to  the  fire  ? 
I  have  been  with  God  in  the  dark — go,  go,  you  may 

leave  me  alone — 
You  never  have  borne  a  child — you  are  just  as  hard  as 

a  stone. 

Madam,  I  beg  your  pardon  !     I  think  that  you  mean 

to  be  kind, 
But  I  cannot  hear  what  you  say  for  my  Willy's  voice 

in  the  wind — 
The  snow  and  the  sky  so  bright — he  used  but  to  call 

.   in  the  dark, 
And  he  calls  to  me  now  from  the  church  and  not  from 

the  gibbet— for  hark  ! 
Nay — you  can  hear  it  yourself — it  is  coming — shaking 

the  walls— 
Willy — the  moon's  in  a  cloud Good-night.     I  am 

going.     He  calls. 

A.  Lord  Jennyson 


CLXXXI 

ANASTASIS 

Tho'  death  met  love  upon  thy  dying  smile, 

And  staid  him  there  for  hours,  yet  the  orbs  of  sight 

So  speedily  resign'd  their  aspect  bright, 

That  Christian  hope  fell  earthward  for  awhile, 

Appal  I'd  by  dissolution  ;  but  on  high 

A  record  lives  of  thine  identity  ! 

Thou  shalt  not  lose  one  charm  of  lip  or  eye  ; 

The  hues  and  liquid  lights  shall  wait  for  thee, 

And  the  fair  tissues,  wheresoe'er  they  be  ! 

Daughter  of  heaven  !  our  grieving  hearts  repose 

On  the  dear  thought  that  we  once  more  shall  see 

Thy  beauty — like  Himself  our  Master  rose — 

So  shall  that  beauty  its  old  rights  maintain, 

And  thy  sweet  spirit  own  those  eyes  again. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 


Second  Series  249 

CLXXXII 

THE  AFTERNOTE   OF  THE  HOUR 

The  hour  had  struck,  but  still  the  air  was  fili'd 

With  the  long  sequence  of  that  mighty  tone ; 

A  wild  Aeolian  afternote,  that  thrill'd 

My  spirit,  as  I  kiss'd  that  dear  headstone ; 

A  voice  that  seem'd  through  all  the  Past  to  go — 

From  the  bell's  mouth  the  lonely  cadence  swept. 

Like  the  faint  cry  of  unassisted  woe, 

Till,  in  my  profitless  despair,  I  wept ; 

My  hope   seem'd   wreck' d  !    but  soon    I  ceased  to 

mourn ; 

A  nobler  meaning  in  that  voice  I  found, 
Whose  scope  lay  far  beyond  that  burial-ground ; 
'Twas  grief,  but  grief  to  distant  glory  bound  ! 
Faith  took  the  helm  of  that  sweet  wandering  sound, 
And  turn'd  it  heavenwards,  to  its  proper  bourne. 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 


CLXXXIII 

MARY— A   REMINISCENCE 

She  died  in  June,  while  yet  the  woodbine  sprays 
Waved  o'er  the  outlet  of  this  garden-dell ; 
Before  the  advent  of  these  Autumn  days 
And  dark  unblossom'd  verdure.     As  befel, 
I  from  my  window  gazed,  yearning  to  forge 
Some  comfort  out  of  anguish  so  forlorn  ; 
The  dull  rain  stream'^  before  the  bloomless  gorge, 
By  which,  erewhile,  on  each  less  genial  morn, 
Our  Mary  pass'd,  to  gain  her  shelter'd  lawn, 
With  Death's  disastrous  rose  upon  her  cheek. 
How  often  had  I  watch'd  her,  pale  and  meek, 
Pacing  the  sward  !  and  now  I  daily  seek 
The  track,  by  those  slow  pausing  footsteps  worn, 
How  faintly  worn  !  though  trodden  week  by  week. 
C.  Tennyson-  Jurner 


250  The  Golden  Treasury 


CLXXXIV 

MARY 

CONTINUED 

And  when  I  seek  the  chamber  where  she  dwelt, 

Near  one  loved  chair  a  well-worn  spot  I  see, 

Worn  by  the  shifting  of  a  feeble  knee 

While  the  poor  head  bow'd  lowly — it  would  melt 

The  worldling's  heart  with  instant  sympathy : 

The  match-box  and  the  manual,  lying  there, 

Those  sad  sweet  signs  of  wakefulness  and  prayer, 

Are  darling  tokens  of  the  Past  to  me  : 

The  little  rasping  sound  of  taper  lit 

At  midnight,  which  aroused  her  slumbering  bird : 

The  motion  of  her  languid  frame  that  stirr'd 

For  ease  in  some  new  posture — tho'  a  word 

Perchance,  of  sudden  anguish,  follow'd  it ; 

All  this  how  often  had  I  seen  and  heard  ! 

C.  Tennyson- Turner 

CLXXXV 
•IF  I   WERE  DEAD* 

1  If  I  were  dead,  you'd  sometimes  say,  Poor  Child  ! ' 

The  dear  lips  quiver'd  as  they  spake, 

And  the  tears  brake 

From  eyes  which,  not  to  grieve  me,  brightly  smiled. 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child  ! 

I  seem  to  hear  your  laugh,  your  talk,  your  song. 

It  is  not  true  that  Love  will  do  no  wrong. 

Poor  Child  ! 

And  did  you  think,  when  you  so  cried  and  smiled. 

How  I,  in  lonely  nights,  should  lie  awake, 

And  of  those  words  your  full  avengers  make  ? 

Poor  Child,  poor  Child  ! 

And  now,  unless  it  be 

That  sweet  amends  thrice  told  are  come  to  thee, 

O  God,  have  Thou  no  mercy  u^)on  me  ! 

Poor  Child  ! 

C.  Patmore 


Second  Series  251 

CLXXXVI 
LOVE  AFTER  DEATH 

There  is  an  earthly  glimmer  in  the  Tomb  : 

And,  heal'd  in  their  own  tears  and  with  long  sleep, 
My  eyes  unclose  and  feel  no  need  to  weep  ; 
But,  in  the  corner  of  the  narrow  room, 
Behold  Love's  spirit  standeth,  with  the  bloom 

That  things  made  deathless  by  Death's  self  may  keep, 
O  what  a  change  !  for  now  his  looks  are  deep, 
And  a  long  patient  smile  he  can  assume  : 
While  Memory,  in  some  soft  low  monotone, 
Is  pouring  like  an  oil  into  mine  ear 
The  tale  of  a  most  short  and  hollow  bliss, 
That  I  once  throbb'd  indeed  to  call  my  own, 
Holding  it  hardly  between  joy  and  fear, — 
And  hovfr  that  broke,  and  how  it  came  to  this. 

A.  Cf  Shaughncssy 


CLXXXVII 
RE  ADEN  0V  A  HEAD-STWONE 

As  I  wer  readen  ov  a  stwone 
In  Grenley  church-yard  all  alwone, 
A  little  maid  ran  up,  wi'  pride 
To  zee  me  there,  an'  push'd  a-zide 
A  bunch  o'  bennets  that  did  hide 
A  verse  her  father,  as  she  zaid, 
Put  up  above  her  mother's  head, 
To  tell  how  much  he  loved  her. 

The  verse  wer  short,  but  very  good, 
I  stood  an'  larn'd  en  where  I  stood  : — 
*  Mid  God,  dear  Meary,  gi'e  me  greace 
To  vind,  lik'  thee,  a  better  pleace, 
Where  I  woonce  mwore  mid  zee  thy  feace ; 
An'  bring  thy  childern  up  to  know 
His  word,  that  they  mid  come  an'  show 
Thy  soul  how  much  I  lov'd  thee.' 


252  The  Golden   Treasury 

*  Where's  father,  then,'  I  zaid,  *  my  chile  ? 

*  Dead  too, '  she  answer'd  wi'  a  smile  ; 

*  An'  I  an'  brother  Jim  do  bide 
At  Betty  White's,  o'  t'other  side 

O'  road.'     '  Mid  He,  my  chile,'  I  cried, 
'  That's  father  to  the  fatherless, 
Become  thy  father  now,  an'  bless, 
An'  keep,  an'  lead,  an'  love  thee.' 

Though  she've  a-lost,  I  thought,  so  much, 
Still  He  don't  let  the  thoughts  o't  touch 
Her  litsome  heart  by  day  or  night ; 
An'  zoo,  if  we  could  teake  it  right, 
Do  show  He'll  meake  His  burdens  light 
To  weaker  souls,  an'  that  His  smile 
Is  sweet  upon  a  harmless  chile, 
When  they  be  dead  that  lov'd  it. 

W.  Barnes 


CLXXXVIII 
PLORATA    VERIS  LACHRYMIS 

O  now,  my  true  and  dearest  bride,  - 
Since  thou  hast  left  my  lonely  side, 
My  life  has  lost  its  hope  and  zest. 
The  sun  rolls  on  from  east  to  west, 
But  brings  no  more  that  evening  rest, 
Thy  loving-kindness  made  so  sweet. 
And  time  is  slow  that  once  was  fleet, 

As  day  by  day  was  waning. 

The  last  sad  day  that  show'd  thee  lain 
Before  me,  smiling  in  thy  pain, 
The  sun  soar'd  high  along  his  way 
To  mark  the  longest  summer  day, 
And  show  to  me  the  latest  play 
Of  thy  sweet  smile,  and  thence,  as  all 
The  days'  lengths  shrunk  from  small  to  small, 
My  joy  began  its  waning. 


Second  Series  253 

And  now  'tis  keenest  pain  to  see 
Whate'er  I  saw  in  bliss  with  thee. 
The  softest  airs  that  ever  blow, 
The  fairest  days  that  ever  glow, 
Unfelt  by  thee,  but  bring  me  woe  ; 
And  sorrowful  I  kneel  in  pray'r, 
Which  thou  no  longer,  now,  canst  share, 
As  day  by  day  is  waning. 

How  can  I  live  my  lonesome  days  ? 
How  can  I  tread  my  lonesome  ways  ? 
How  can  I  take  my  lonesome  meal  ? 
Or  how  outlive  the  grief  I  feel  ? 
Or  how  again  look  on  to  weal  ? 
Or  sit,  at  rest,  before  the  heat 
Of  winter  fires,  to  miss  thy  feet, 

When  evening  light  is  waninf. 

Thy  voice  is  still  I  loved  to  hear, 

Thy  voice  is  lost  I  held  so  dear. 

Since  death  unlocks  thy  hand  from  mine, 

No  love  awaits  me  such  as  thine ; 

Oh  !  boon  the  hardest  to  resign  ! 

But  if  we  meet  again  at  last 

In  heav'n,  I  little  care  how  fast 

My  life  may  now  be  waning. 
W.  Barnes 

CLXXXIX 

IN  THE    VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ 

All  along  the  valley/stream  that  flashest  white, 

Deepening  thy  voice  with  the  deepening  of  the  night, 

All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow, 

I  walk'd  with  one  I  loved,  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley,  while  I  walk'd  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed, 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead, 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


254  The  Golden  Treasury 

CXC 
'BREAK,  BREAK,  BREAK* 

Break,  break,  break, 

On  ,thy  cold  gray  stones,  O  Sea  ! 
And  I  would  that  my  tongue  could  utter 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  me. 

O  well  for  the  fisherman's  boy, 

That  he  shouts  with  his  sister  at  play  ! 

O  well  for  the  sailor  lad, 

That  he  sings  in  his  boat  on  the  bay  ! 

And  the  stately  ships  go  on 

To  their  haven  under  the  hill  ! 
But  O  for  the  touch  of  a  vanish'd  hand, 

And  the  sound  of  a  voice  that  is  still ! 

Break,  break,  break, 

At  the  foot  of  thy  crags,  O  Sea  ! 
But  the  tender  grace  of  a  day  that  is  dead 

Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

A.  Lord  Tennyson 


0f 


NOTES 
INDEX   OF   WRITERS 

AND 

INDEX  OF   FIRST   LINES 


NOTES 

PAGE   NO. 

I  I  IN  this  and  a  certain  number  of  other  poems 
portions,  large  or  small,  have  been  omitted 
(as  in  the  earlier  volume)  where  the  piece 
could  be  thus  brought,  it  is  hoped,  to  a 
closer  lyrical  unity  :  or  where  the  immensely 
increased  length  of  the  Victorian  lyrics  (as 
stated  in  the  Preface)  outran  the  limited 
space. 

8  7     dote,  water-lily :  tuns,  chimneys. 

9  —    Paladore,  old  traditional  name  for  Shaftes- 

bury :  en,  him  ;   tweil,  toil. 

12  10  This,  with  other  poems  in  the  same  style 
and  metre,  is  taken  from  Patmore's  Un- 
known Eros.  They  are  of  a  very  singular 
and  attractive  originality :  full  of  powerful 
thought,  and  a  peculiar  passionate  intensity. 
But  it  is  not  always  easy  to  follow  their 
strongly-marked  symbolical  character,  which 
occasionally  may  approach  paradox. 

17  12  scroll  of  prayer :  'The  extract  from  the 
Book  of  the  Dead,  which  was  put  into  the 
hands  of  the  deceased ' :  c.  T.  T. 

19  1 6  Emmie.  '  It  should  be  remembered  that  this 
is  a  little  drama,  in  which  the  Hospital  Nurse, 
not  the  Poet,  is  supposed  to  be  speaking 
throughout.  The  two  children,  whose  story 
was  published  in  a  Parish  magazine,  are  the 

256 


Notes 


257 


only  characters  here  described  from  actual 
life ' :  (written  on  the  authority  of  A.  T.,  1 884). 
19  16  St.  I  oorali,  also  curari  and  woorali :  a 
drug  extracted  from  Strychnos  toxifera  :  It 
acts  by  paralyzing  the  nerves  of  motion, 
whilst  the  sensitiveness  remains  unimpaired. 

23  17     In   its   sweet   simplicity  worthy  of  Blake's 

Songs  of  Innocence. 

24  19     The  poems  by  Robert  Browning  are  here 

reprinted  by  permission  of  his  son  R.  Bar- 
rett Browning,  and  of  Messrs.  Smith,  Elder 
&  Co. 

25  2O     Clare,  born  and   bred   in  a   day-labourer's 

cottage,  struggling  with  bitterest  poverty, 
by  these  experiences  became  a  poet  of  the 
poor  in  an  almost  unique  sense.  His  mind 
failed,  and  the  best  of  his  verse  (to  which 
all  our  examples  belong)  was  in  truth  writ- 
ten during  lucid  intervals,  while  he  was  con- 
fined in  an  asylum.  It  has  hence  an  almost 
unapproachable  sadness  ;  he  reverts  always 
with  pathetic  yearning  to  the  village  scenes 
of  a  youth,  which  now  shone  before  him 
like  a  vision  of  lost  happiness. 

32  26  It  is  in  his  command  of  pathos  (witness 
Nos.  12  and  15),  in  his  exquisite  precision 
of  language,  his  perfect  art,  that  Charles 
seems  to  resemble  his  next  younger  brother 
Alfred.  This  sonnet  exemplifies  his  curious 
skill  in  painting,  and  almost  animating  into 
life,  the  mechanical  appliances  of  the  farm. 
In  the  last  six  lines  he  refers  to  Vergil, 
thinking  of  the 

arbuteae  crates  et  mystica-vannus  lacchi, 

J 

and  the  picture  of  the  plough  which  fol- 
lows: (Georg.  i, -i 66). 

34  27  Was  it:  For  this  skilfully  written  passage 
Arnold  refers  us  to  11.  465-485  in  the  Birds 
of  Aristophanes.  But  he  was  most  indebted 
to  the  splendid  dithyrambic  ode,  11.  685- 


258  Notes 

PAGE   NO. 

723.  Arnold's  affectionate  interest  and  in- 
sight  into  the  animal  world  is  well  shown 
in  this  (and  other)  poems,  written  near  the 
close  of  his  too  brief  lifetime. 

34  28  The  Clarence  is  a  small  river  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  New  South  Wales.  —  This  fine 
poem  might  be  called  an  Australian  Yarrow 
Unvisited.  The  writer  presently  says, 

The  slightest  glimpse  of  yonder  place 

Untrodden  and  alone, 
Might  wholly  kill  that  nameless  grace, 

The  charm  of  the  Unknown. 

He  was  himself  Australian  ;  his  life  short 
and  unhappy.  —  This  poem,  with  a  few 
others,  is  taken  from  that  useful  and  inter- 
esting collection,  The  Poets  and  the  Poetry 
of  the  Century,  edited  by  Mr.  A.  H.  Miles. 

36  29  St.  5  And  the  flower  in  soft  explosion  :  when 
the  seed  is  ripe  for  fertilizing  and  the  an- 
thers burst.  One  who  knew  the  poet  wrll 
writes,  '  His  love  for  and  observation  of 
Nature  was  extraordinary  from  earliest  child- 
hood,' and  was  expanded  by  his  employ- 
ment in  the  Natural  History  province  of 
the  British  Museum. 

Arthur  O'Shaughnessy's  metrical  gift  seems 
to  me  the  finest,  after  Tennyson's,  of  any 
of  our  later  poets:  he  has  a  haunting  music 
all  his  own.  Within  a  narrow  range  of  in- 
terests and  experience,  he  is  also  high  in 
pure  passionate  imagination :  he  has  to  the 
full  the  Ecstasy  which  Plato  requires  in  the 
true  poet:  although  wasted  too  often  in 
fanciful  extravagance  and  a  gloom  due  to 
personal  misfortune.  —  Among  our  Victorian 
poets,  he  and  William  Barnes,  I  will  venture 
the  opinion,  have  met  with  the  least  due 
recognition  of  their  eminent  powers. 

37  30  1.  5  Trophonian  pallor :  Refers  to  a  cave- 
oracle  at  Lebadaea  in  Boeotia  so  gloomy  and 


Notes  259 

PAGE  NO. 

haunted  by  supernatural  terror  that  those 
who  entered  it  were  said  never  to  have  smiled 
again. 

40  33  Alfred  Tennyson  rated  the  Scholar  Gipsy 
as  Arnold's  finest  poem.  His  explanatory 
note  follows:  'There  was  very  lately  a  lad 
in  the  University  of  Oxford,  who  was  by  his 
poverty  forced  to  leave  his  studies  there;  and 
at  last  to  join  himself  to  a  company  of  vaga- 
bond gipsies.  Among  these  extravagant 
people,  by  the  insinuating  subtility  of  his 
carriage,  he  quickly  got  so  much  of  their 
love  and  esteem  as  that  they  discovered  to 
him  their  mystery.  After  he  had  been  a 
pretty  while  exercised  in  the  trade,  there 
chanced  to  ride  by  a  couple  of  scholars,  who 
had  formerly  been  of  his  acquaintance.  They 
quickly  spied  out  their  old  friend  among  the 
gipsies;  and  he  gave  them  an  account  of  the 
necessity  which  drove  him  to  that  kind  of 
life,  and  told  them  that  the  people  he  went 
with  were  not  such  impostors  as  they  were 
taken  for,  but  that  they  had  a  traditional 
kind  of  learning  among  them,  and  could  do 
wonders  by  the  power  of  imagination,  their 
fancy  binding  that  of  others :  that  himself 
had  learned  much  of  their  art,  and  when  he 
had  compassed  the  whole  secret,  he  intended, 
he  said,  to  leave  their  company,  and  give  the 
world  an  account  of  what  he  had  learned.'  — 
Glanvil's  Vanity  of  Dogmatizing,  1661. 

48  36     Amaturus,  with  Nos.  124,  126,  is  reprinted 

from  lonica,  by  permission  of  the  publisher, 
j  Hjr  Mr.  G.  Allen. 

49  37     This  lovely  song  is  a  kind  of  counterpart  to 

Hood's  Fair  Inez,  but  in  a  more  impassioned 
key. 

54  43  In  its  simple  brightness  and  airy  music  Barnes 
here  touches  the  Elizabethan  lyrical  chord; 
but  goes  beyond  it  in  depth  of  feeling.  L.  4 
athirt,  athwart. 


260  Notes 

PAGE   NO. 

56    48     1.  5  z/«X  first. 

58  50  Theocritus  has  no  correspondent  passage. 
The  allusion  may  be  to  the  fragmentary  Id)  11 
iii,  ascribed  to  Bion  of  Smyrna. 

65  60     This  simple  love-song,  which  even  Tenn .  sun 

never  surpassed  in  beauty,  is  at  the  same 
time  curiously  dramatic.  The  lover's  little 
wood  borders  on  the  high  trees  and  Hall  of 
Maud's  father,  who  is  expecting  there  the 
'  new-made '  lord,  his  intended  son-in-law. 
Maud  meanwhile  has  ventured  to  cross  the 
boundary,  and  the  birds  form  a  kind  of  chorus 
to  the  meeting :  those  in  *  our  wood  '  re- 
joicing that  she  is  *  here,'  the  rooks  on  the 
other  hand  inviting  her  to  the  Hall  and  the 
rival  suitor.  —  It  is  a  wonder  of  art  how 
Tennyson  has  set  forth  the  whole  situation, 
and  the  romance  of  first- love,  in  so  few 
words.  But  not  one  of  them  is  wasted. 

66  —     St.  2  Many  poets  have  thought  it  a  beautiful 

touch  to  speak  of  a  girl's  footsteps  as  too 
light  to  bend  the  flowers.  Tennyson  has 
here  given  a  finer  image  through  plain  truth 
to  the  structure  of  the  daisy,  the  crimson 
florets  which  encircle  the  underside  of  the 
blossom.  Poetry  of  beauty  so  pure  and  un- 
alloyed as  this  must  surely  have  poured  itself 
forth  from  'The  Mind's  internal  Heaven.' 

69  65  Ashe's  tender  little  ditty,  without  a  trace  of 
imitation,  recalls  Wordsworth's  best  early 
simple  sentiment.  It  is  reproduced  by  per- 
mission of  Messrs.  G.  Bell  &  Sons. 

71     69     With  this  noble  sonnet  compare  Shakespeare's 

Tired  with  all  these,  for  restful  death  I 
cry  ... 

8 1     73     1.  5  the  poet  sings : 

lr 

Nessun  maggior  dolore 
Che  ricordarsi  del  tempo  felice 
Nella  miseria.  —  Dante,  Inferno^  C.  v. 


Notes  261 

PAGE    NO. 

87  73  1.  6  a  cycle :  any  number  of  years  of  what  is 
popularly  described  as  Chinese  immobility. 

92  77  The  poet's  last  lines,  dictated  on  his  deathbed. 
If  a  friendship  of  near  half  a  century  may 
allow  me  to  say  it,  those  solemn  words,  As 
sorrowful,  yet  always  rejoicing,  give  the  true 
key  to  Alfred  Tennyson's  inmost  nature,  his 
life  and  his  poetry. 

98  80    In  this  and  the  next  poem  Tennyson's  own 

notes  have  been  retained.  The  additional 
glossary  following  was  written  at  his  sugges- 
tion or  dictation. 

St.  I  'asta  bean,  hast  thou  been:  thoort, 
thou  art :  modnt  'a,  may  not  have.  St.  2  a 
says,  he  says :  point,  pint.  St.  3  ^issen,  Him- 
self: towd,  told:  boy,  by.  St.  4  a  ma1  bed, 
he  may  be :  cast  oop,  cast  up  against  me. 

99  —    St.  5  owt,  ought.     St.  6  'siver,  howsoever : 

boy  'um,  by  him.  St.  7  stubbed,  broke  up 
for  cultivation.  St.  8  moind,  remember : 
boggle,  bogle,  haunting  spirit:  the  lot,  the 
piece  of  waste  land  :  raavedart  rembled,  tore 
up  and  threw  away.  St.  9  kedper's  it  wur, 
it  was  the  keeper's  ghost :  at  'soize,  at  the 
assizes.  St.  10  dubbut,  do  but. 

100  —    yows,  ewes.     St.  1 1  ta-year,  this  year :  hadte 

hoonderd,  eight  hundred. 

—  —     St.  12  thutty,  thirty.     St.    13  a  moost,  He 

must :  cauve,  calve  :  hodlms,  small  mounds. 
St.  14  quoloty,  gentry :  thessen,  themselves : 
sewer  loy,  surely.  St.  15  ho2vd,  hold. 

101  —     St.   16  kittle,  boiler:    huzzin1  an'  madzin\ 

worrying  with  hiss  and  amazing.  St.  17 
'todttler,  teetotaller :  a's  hallus  V  the  owd 
taale,  is  always  telling  the  same  old  story: 
floy,  fly. 

—  8 1     St.  2  craw  to  pluck,  affair  to  dispute :  wod, 

.go  slower,  lad. 

102  —     St.  6  as  'ant  nowt,  as  has  nothing.     St.  7 

wednt,  wont :   ligs,  lies. 

103  —     St.  8  shut  on,  clear  of:  i*  the  grip,  in  the 


2b2  Notes 

PAG a  NO. 

little  draining  ditch.  St.  10,  bHvn,  born.  St 
1 1  esh,  ash. 

104  8 1  St.  13  ammost,  almost:  'id,  hidden  away: 
tued  an*  moird,  put  himself  in  a  stew  and 
toiled.  St.  14  run  oop,  his  land  ran  up: 
brig,  bridge. 

107  85  11.  1-4.  The  allusion  is  to  stellar  photo- 
graphy; the  light  rays  from  stars  invisible  to 
us  through  their  immense  distance  chemi- 
cally affect  the  sensitive  plate.  This  is  a 
beautiful  instance  of  scientific  fact  trans- 
formed into  poetry.  A.  Tennyson  affords 
many  analogous  examples. 

116  92     Alfred  Domett  left  England  for  New  Zea- 

land (of  which  colony  he  became  Prime 
Minister)  in  1842:  'His  departure  was 
apparently  somewhat  sudden.  Robert 
Browning,  his  intimate  companion  and 
friend/  celebrated  it  in  the  lively  verses 

What's  become  of  Waring, 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip? 

The  fine  specimen  of  his  poetry  here  given 
was  published  in  1837. 

117  93     This  text  exhibits  the  author's  final  revision. 

The  Birkenhead,  steam  troop-ship,  struck 
near  Simon's  Bay,  Cape  of  Good  Hope, 
Feb.  25,  1852.  Four  hundred  and  thirty- 
eight  officers,  soldiers,  and  seamen  were 
lost :  including  the  military  commander, 
Colonel  Seton  of  the  74th. 

119  94  'Some  Seiks,  and  a  private  of  the  Buffs 
[the  East  Kent  regiment],  having  remained 
behind  with  the  grog-carts,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Chinese.  On  the  next  morn- 
ing, they  were  brought  before  the  authori- 
ties, and  commanded  to  perform  the  Kotou. 
The  Seiks  obeyed;  but  Moyse,  the  English 
soldier,  declaring  that  he  would  not  prostrate 
himself  before  any  Chinaman  alive,  was 
immediately  knocked  upon  the  head,  and 


Notes  263 

PAGE  NO. 

his  body  thrown  on  a  dunghill.'  —  China 
Correspondent  of  the  '  Times?  This  inci- 
dent took  place  during  the  English  cam- 
paign of  1860.  Lord  Elgin  was  then  our 
ambassador  to  China. 

121  96  lane,  alone:  bienly,  cheerfully:  sclid,  slip- 
pery: the  nicht,  to-night:  gin,  if.  —  The 
event  dates  not  long  before  1874 ;  the 
woman  was  a  poor  Highlander.  Schihallion 
is  a  stern  and  lofty  mountain  in  central 
Perthshire. 

128  100  Tennyson  in  this  poem  has  had  in  view  the 
animated  description  of  the  sea-right  (KQi) 
left  us  by  Grenville's  kinsman,  Sir  Walter 
Ralegh. 

133  101  The  Charge  at  Balaclava  (25  Oct.  1854) 
lasted  twenty-five  minutes,  and  left  more 
than  two-thirds  of  our  men  dead  or  wounded. 

139  103  The  worst  spirit  of  the  Renaissance,  in 
Italy  and  in  France  (and  not  without  con- 
temporary followers  among  us),  breathes 
through  this  terribly  powerful  poem. 

141  104  This  incident  was  'told  to  the  author  by  the 
late  Sir  Charles  Napier.'  The  British  attack, 
like  that  at  Balaclava,  was  made  under  an 
order  misunderstood :  see  These  were  .  .  . 
As  without  ...  p.  142-3.  The  fortress, 
Truckee,  was  considered  impregnable.  The 
temper  of  Mehrab  Khan  is  admirably  ren- 
dered by  the  lines  placed  in  his  mouth 
by  Sir  F.  H.  Doyle  in  a  brief  ode  to  his 
honour :  they  recall  Lovelace's  Althea  : 

The  noble  heart,  as  from  a  tower, 

Looks  down  on  life  that  wears  a  stain; 

He  lives  too  long,  who  lives  an  hour 
Beneath  the  clanking  of  a  chain. 

144  105  This  nobly,  if  roughly,  energetic  ballad 
raises  a  regret  that  the  writer  should  have 
so  largely  given  away  his  genius  to  the 
attempt  to  vivify  the  ancient  Irish  legends, 


264  Notes 

PACK   NO. 

scattered  over  as  they  are  with  beauty,  to 
English  readers.  It  .must  be  feared  they 
are  too  remote,  too  lost  from  tradition,  fur 
that  process. 

sledges,  sledge-hammers :  bower,  one  of  the 
large  naval  anchors,  hung  at  the  vessel's 
bows  ;  whence  spoken  of  as  a  hammock : 
the  chains,  lower  fastenings  of  the  shrouds 
into  her  sides :  cat  or  cathead,  projecting 
timber  on  which  the  anchor  is  hung :  lubber, 
clumsy,  lazy. 

148  107  When  the  Grecian  generals,  after  the  Per- 
sian fleet  had  been  ruined  at  Salamis,  met 
to  settle  who  deserved  the  first  and  the 
second  prizes  for  valour,  the  story  runs 
that  each  man  gave  for  himself  ihis  /first 
vote,  his  second  for  Themistocles.  If  the 
civilized  nations  of  the  world  met  to  decide 
in  like  wise  for  the  best  and  the  next  test 
country,  would  not  their  second  votes,  with 
our  impassioned  poetess,  Salute  Italy,  —  so 
giving  her  the  virtual  primacy? 

154  III  doty,  covered  with  water-lilies:  zot$  set: 
leaden,  leading:  mid,  might.  Let  me  ex- 
press a  hope  that  the  (really  -very)  slight 
difficulties  offered  by  the  Dorset  speech 
will  not  hinder  true  lovers  of  poetry  from 
making  friends  with  this  genuine,  original, 
exquisite  Singer?  —  If  they-  once  do  so,  it 
will  be  a  friendship  for  life. 

162  1 1 7  greygles,  wild    hyacinth:    lew,  shelter,   lee: 

'V a-heav*d,  have  heaved. 

163  118     Composed    at     the    Old     Burying    Place, 

Glencripisdale.' 
1 68  124  Anteros,  in    this   admirably  musical    dirge, 

seems  used  to  signify  Love  unrequited. 
—  125  the  old  man,  Homer:  'The  name  Europe, 
(EvpuTT*>,  the  wide  prospect}  probably  de- 
scribes the  appearance  of  the  European 
coast  to  the  Greeks  on  the  coast  of  Asia 
Minor  opposite.  The  name  Asia,  again, 


Notes  265 

?AGE  NO. 

comes,  it  has  been  thought,  from  the  fens 
of  the  marshy  rivers  of  Asia  Minor,  such 
as  the  Cayster  or  Maeander,  which  struck 
the  imagination  of  the  Greeks  living  near 
them.  (M.A.)  That  halting  slave;  the 
semi-Stoic  Epictetus,  banished  from  Rome 
by  Domitian :  the  most  practical  teacher 
of  the  ancient  world,  and  beyond  Aurelius 
in  his  religious  instincts,  in  his  more  cheer- 
ful philosophy.  Singer  of  sweet  Co/onus  : 
Sophocles. 

169  126  Comatas :  a  shepherd  poet  whom  the  bees 
came  to  feed  when  imprisoned,  because  the 
Muses  had  touched  his  lips  with  nectar. 
Cf.  Theocritus,  Id.  vii. 

173  129  Tennyson   visited    this   peninsula   with    his 

son  Hallam  in  1883.  He  has  here  united 
allusions  to  the  little  poem  addressed  by 
Catullus  to  his  country  home,  and  to  his 
lament  over  a  beloved  brother,  —  two  of  the 
most  exquisite  lyrics  in  all  literature,  —  in 
a  lyric  itself  worthy  to  stand  beside  them. 

174  130    Thy r sis.     A.  H.  Clough  died  13  Nov.  1861. 

*  Throughout  this  poem  there  is  a  reference 
to  the  preceding  piece,  The  Scholar  Gipsy? 
Clough  left  Oxford  in  spring,  1848,  breaking 
away  with  delight  '  from  what  he  felt  to  be 
the    thraldom    of  his   position '    there,  and 
recommencing    work    at    University    Hall, 
London,    in    Oct.    1849.     Here,    however, 

*  he  could  not  rest ' ;  the  old  sense  of  thral- 
dom returned.     These    movements   are,  in 
some  degree,  beautifully  yet  fancifully  rep- 
resented in  Thyrsis.     But  reference  to  the 
Life  of  Clough  (prefixed  to  his  Poems.  1869) 
shows  that  Arnold,  yielding  perhaps  to  the 
idealizing  character  of  Elegiac  poetry,  when 
cast  in    Idyllic   form,  has  given  a   far   too 
gloomy  general  picture  of  Clough's  career. 
From  his  youth,  indeed,  his  verse  had  little 
of  the  '  happy,  country  tone '  ascribed  to  it 


266  Notes 

PAGE   NO. 

the  moral  and  religious  problems  of  life 
weighing  already  on  his  meditative,  tremu- 
lously sensitive  nature :  and  it  was  really  in 
the  later  happy  years  which  followed  his 
marriage  that  the  '  troubled  sound  '  ceased 
to  be  the  leading  note  of  his  poetry,  and 
so  far  from  becoming  *  mute,'  to  that  time 
his  most  pleasing,  his  brightest  verse, 
largely  belonged. 

184  133  Strange  unloved  tiproar  :  This  poem  was 
*  written  during  the  siege  of  Rome  by  the 
French,  1849.' 

191  135  The  picture,  here  assigned  to  Guercino  (to 
judge  by  the  photograph  issued  by  the 
Browning  Society),  is  most  probably  the 
graceful  work  of  a  pupil :  it  has  more  tender- 
ness, less  strength,  than  that  Master's  work. 

193  138  Asolando  is  the  title  given  by  R.  Browning 

to  his  last  volume. 

194  139  St.  2, 1.  3  Tennyson  here  refers  to  his  De  Pro- 

fundis, —  'Out  of  the  depths,  my  child'  .  .  . 

203  145  Of  If  she  but  knew  .  .  .,  as  of  Nos.  146, 
148,  and  others  by  poor  O'Shaughnessy, 
might  be  said,  in  Sir  H.  Wotton's  words 
upon  Milton's  early  lyrics,  Ipsa  mollifies,  — 
'  sweet  tenderness  itself.'  This  hardly  known 
poet  often  treats  the  main  subject  of  his  song 
with  an  originality,  a  pathos,  so  singular, 
that  it  might  be  thought  Love  had  never 
before  been  sung  of.  He  constantly  reminds 
us  of  his  favourite  musician,  sharing  with 
Chopin  that  exquisite  tenderness  of  touch, 
the  melody,  the  delicacy  (which  Ruskin 
gives  as  the  note  of  all  the  highest  art), 
ascribed  to  that  fascinating  composer. 

207  150  Miss  Rossetti,  in  that  circle  of  sentiment  and 
of  thought  within  which  she  generally  moves, 
has  an  invention  so  fertile,  such  a  nimble 
wit,  as  the  old  phrase  has  it,  a  power  of 
impressing  unity  upon  the  idea  of  each  little 
song  so  perfect,  that  no  poet  dealt  with 


Notes  267 

PAGE   NO. 

in  this  book,  with  exception  of  Alfred 
Tennyson,  has  rendered  choice  more  per- 
plexing, or,  probably,  to  many  among  her 
many  admirers,  more  unsatisfactory. 
Her  singularly  original  genius,  like 
O'Shaughnessy's,  tempts  to  discussion. 
But  these  notes  have  perhaps  indulged  too 
much  in  what  might  be  better  left  to  the 
reader's  discernment. 

240  176  *  A  death  in  the  Thebaid.' 

241  177  'Salisbury,  Nov.    1843':    on  the  death  of 

Mrs.  Edward  Denison,  wife  to  the  Bishop. 

242  179  'Oxford,   April,    1828':    written    after   the 

sudden  death  of  Miss  Newman.  The  ex- 
quisite tenderness  of  her  honoured  brother 
sighs  through  this  pathetic  dirge. 

244  1 80  This  tale  is  placed  in  the  eighteenth  century, 
when  the  barbarous  custom  of  hanging 
certain  criminals  in  chains  was  common. 
One  such  gibbet  stood  till  later  days  (ac- 
cording to  J.  M.  W.  Turner's  plate  in  his 
Liber  Studiorum)  upon  Hindhead  Hill 
opposite  Haslemere. 

248  181  7'hou  shalt  not  lose:  Compare  Petrarch, 
speaking  of  souls  in  heaven, 

Tanti  volti  che  '1  Tempo  e  Morte  han  guasti 
Torneranno  al  lor  piu  fiorito  stato. 

251  187  en,  it:  mid,  might,  may. 

252  —     lit 'some,  lightsome. 

253  189  one  I  loved:  Arthur  Hallam :  Written  after 

Tennyson's  visit  to  the  Pyrenees,  summer  of 
1861, 


INDEX  OF  WRITERS 

WITH    DATES    OF    BIRTH    AND   DEATH 

NUMBER 

ARGYLL,  George  Douglas  Campbell,  Eighth  Duke 

of( ). 

O.ur  Dead Ixxxv 

ARNOLD,  Matthew  (1822-1888). 

Iseult'8  Children .    .  v 

On  the  Death  of  a  favourite  Canary xxvii 

The  Song  of  Etnpedocles xxxii 

The  Scholar-Gipsy  . xxxiii 

A  Summer  Night Ixxvi 

The  Future Ixxviii 

The  Forsaken  Merman xcix 

Philomela cxxi 

To  a  Friend cxxv 

Song  of  Callicles  in  Sicily cxxvii 

Callicles  beneath  Etna cxxviii 

Thyrsis cxxx 

Consolation cxxxiii 

ARHE,  Thomas  (1836-1889). 

Old  Jane Ixv 

BARNES,  William  (1801-1886). 

The  Surprise iv 

Blackmwore  Maidens vii 

The  Mother's  Dream xvii 

Zummer  an'  Winter xliii 

Lullaby xliv 

"  Jeane xlviii 

The  girt  Woak  Tree  that's  in  the  Dell  .    .     .    .  cxi 

The  girt  Wold  House  o'  Mossy  Stwone     .     .     .  cxvii 

The  Broken  Heart cliii 

Ellen  Brine  of  Allenburn clxxv 

Keaden  ov  a  Head-stwone clxxxvii 

Plorata  Veris  Lachrymis clxxxviU 

269 


270  Index  of  Writers 

BROWNING,  Elizabeth  Barrett  (1809  1861).  NUMBER 

The  Deserted  Garden vi 

The  Pet  Name ix 

The  Cry  of  the  Children xi 

If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought     .    .  xlv 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange  .     .     .  xlvi 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand    .     .  xlix 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus  had  sung  ...  1 

I  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless  .    .    .    .  clii 

A  Dead  Rose clxv 

BROWNING,  Robert  (1812-1889). 

4  De  Gustibus  — '     .    .    . xix 

Two  in  the  Campagna xxi 

Never,  the  Time  and  the  Place liv 

Herve  Kiel cii 

The  Laboratory ciii 

Home-thoughts,  from  Abroad cviii 

Love  among  the  Ruins cix^ 

Amphibian cxxxi 

Rabbi  Ben  Ezra cxxxiv 

The  Guardian-Angel cxxxv 

Prospice cxxxvi 

Epilogue  to  Asolando cxxxviii 

A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's cxliv 

The  Lost  Mistress cxlix 

CLARE,  John  (1793-1864). 

My  Early  Home xx 

Tell-Tale  Flowers cxii 

Lasciate  Ogui  Speranza clxx 

CLOUGH,  Arthur  Hugh  (1819-1861). 

The  mighty  ocean  rolls  and  raves Ivii 

Sic  Itur Ixx 

Qua  Cursurn  Ventus Ixxv 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth    ....  cxxxvii 

In  a  London  Square clxix 

DOBELL,  Sidney  (1824-1874). 

The  Ballad  of  Keith  of  Ravelston xcvii 

DOMETT,  Alfred  (1811-1887). 

A  Christmas  Hymn,  1837 xcii 

DOYLE,  Sir  Francis  Hastings  (1810-1888). 

The  Loss  of  the  '  Birkenhead  ' xciii 

The  British  Soldier  in  China xciv 

The  Red  Thread  of  Honour civ 

FERGUSON,  Sir  Samuel  (1810-1886). 

The  Forging  of  the  Anchor cv 


Index  of  Writers  271 

HAWKER,  Robert  Stephen  (1804-1875).  NUMBER 

The  Wail  of  the  Cornish  Mother xiv 

HOUGHTON,  Richard  Monckton  (Milnes)  Lord  (1809- 
1885). 

The  Brook-Side lv 

The  Men  of  Old Ixvii 

Strangers  yet Ixxiv 

Half  Truth cxlii 

Nessun  Maggior  Dolore cxliii 

In  Memoriam clxxvii 

ING*  LOW,  Jean  ( ). 

Song  of  the  Old  Love clviii 

JOHNSON-CORY,  William  (1823-1892). 

Amaturus xxxvi 

A  Dirge      . cxxiv 

An  Invocation cxxvi 

KEBLE,  John  (1792-1866). 

To ,  on  her  Sister's  Death clxxviii 

KENDALL,  Henry  Clarence  (1841-1882). 

Orara xxviii 

After  many  Years cxvi 

KINGSLEY,  Charles  (1819-1875). 

The 'Old,  Old  Song' Ixiii 

The  Sands  of  Dee xcv 

LANDOR,  Walter  Savage  (1775-1864). 

The  Maid's  Lament civ 

MASSEY,  Gerald  ( ). 

Parting cliv 

MORRIS,  Sir  Lewis  ( ). 

Ode  on  a  Fair  Spring  Morning cxiii 

NEWMAN,  John  Henry,  Cardinal  (1801-1890). 

The  Trance  of  Time     . Ixxxiv 

Consolations  in  Bereavement clxxix 

O'SHAUGHNESSY,  Arthur  William  Edgar  (1844-1881). 

Ode i 

Song  of  Palms xxix 

Lynmouth xxxi 

Zuleika xxxvii 

Keeping  a  Heart li 

A  Love  Symphony Ixi 

The  Spectre  of  the  Past Ixxii 

St.  John  Baptist Ixxxii 

Herodiaa cvi 


272  Index  of.  Writers 

O'Sii.vriaiNESSY,  A.  W.  E.  (continued}.  NUMBER 

In  Love's  Eternity cxl 

If  She  but  Knew cxlv 

Song .  cxlvi 

Song cxlviii 

Greater  Memory cli 

Silences clx 

The  Fountain  of  Tears ,  clxxiii 

Love  after  Death clxxxvi 

PATMOKE,  Coventry  (1823-1896)". 

The  Toys x 

Winter xxx 

Nunc  A  met  Qui  Nunquam  Amavit lix 

Magna  Est  Veritas Ixviii 

An  Evening  Scene cxiv 

The  Two  Deserts cxx 

Departure  .     . cxlvii 

A  Farewell clvii 

Amelia clxi 

4  If  I  were  Dead  '      . clxxxv 

PEACOCK,  Thomas  Love  (1 785-1866).  •- 

Maugaret  Love  Peacock   . xiii 

ROMANES,  George  John  (1848-1894). 

Simple  Nature xviii 

Home  at  Last lit 

RosSKTTr,  Christina  Genrgina  (1830-1894). 

Listening .     .     .  xl 

Somewhere  or  Other    .     .     .     .     .^ xli 

A  Pause Ivi 

Next  of  Kin Ixxf 

Sleep  at  Sea Ixxix 

Heaven  overarches  earth  and  sea Ixxxiii 

IIp-Hill Ixxxvii 

Mot lier  Country Ixxxviii 

4  Italia  lo  Ti  Saluto  ! ' cvii 

Three  Seasons cxli 

Echo • cl 

To  the  End • clxiii 

The  Summer  is  Ended clxvii 

The  Bourne    .     . clxxi 

Song .  clxxii 

ROSSETTI,  Gabriel  Charles  Dante  (1828-1882). 

Sunset  Wings      .     .     .     .     .     .  •  .     .     .     .     .     .  '  xxv 

Soul's  Beauty      .     .     .     .  •  .  •  .     .     ...     .     .  :fe£xv 

The  Birth-Bond  .     .     .     .  •  .     .    .     .     .     ...  x^xix 

Willow-wood -.' Xlvii 

Sudden  Light Hit 

Silent  Moon    .    . .  Ivlii 


Index  of  Writers  273 

ROSSETTI,  G.  C.  D.  (continued).  NT.MBKK 

The  Sun's  Shame Ixix 

'  Retro  Me,  Sathana  ! ' Ixxxvi 

The  Blessed  Damozel xc 

Lovesight ;     .    .  clvi 

The  One  Hope clxiv 

Lost  Days .     .  clxvi 

SHAIRP,  John  Campbell  (1819-1885). 

Lost  on  Schihallion xcvi 

Keturn  to  Nature T  .    .    .'V,  cxix 

TENNYSON,  Alfred,  Lord  (1809-1892). 

Cradle  Song- ii 

In  the  Children's  Hospital    .    .    „ xvi 

The  Brook xxii 

0  let  the  solid  ground xxxiv 

Ask  me  no  more  ;  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea  .  xlii 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden Ix 

Far— Far— Away Ixii 

Wages    .     .    ;     . Ixvi 

Locksley  Hall Ixxiii 

The  Silent  Voices ;  Ixxvii 

Northern  Farmer  (Old  Style) Ixxx 

Northern  Farmer  (New  Style) Ixxxi 

St.  Agnes'  Eve Ixxxix 

The  '  Revenge ' c 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade ci 

A  Farewell cxxiii 

'  Frater  Ave  Atque  Yale  '    ........  cxxix 

Crossing  the  Bar cxxxix 

O  that  'twere  possible clxii 

The  Wreck clxxiv 

Rizpah    .     .     .     .  * 3    ...  clxxx 

In  the  Valley  of  Cauteretz clxxxix 

'  Break,  Break,  Break ' cxc 

TENNYSON,  Frederick  ( ). 

The  Glory  of  Nature xxiii 

Song  of  an  Angel xci 

The  Skylark ex 

The  Dream  of  Autumn clix 

TENNYSON-TURNER,  Charles  (1808-1879). 

Letty's  Globe iii 

Little  Sophy  by  the  Seaside viii 

Our  Mary  and  the  Child  Mummy  .     ......  xii 

It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  heart's  delight  .  xv 

.      Resuscitation  of  Fancy xxiv 

The  Steam  Threshing  Machine xxvi 

Mary  Queen  of  Scots xcviii 

Going  Home clxxvi 

T 


f  74  Index  of  Writers 

TENNYSON-TURNER,  C.  (continued').  NUMBER 

Anastasis   ..............  clxxxi 

The  Afternote  of  the  Hour  ........  clxxxii 

Mary—  A  Reminiscence  .........  clxxxiii 

Mary  (continued)   ...........  clxxxiv 


T,  William  Makepeace  (1811-1863). 
At  the  Church  Gate     ..........    xxxviii 

TRENCH,  Richard  Chenevix,  Archbishop  (1807-1886). 

O  life,  O  death,  O  world,  0  time  ......    cxxxii 

Returning  Home     ...........    clxviii 

TERE,  Aubrey  de  (  -  ). 

Evening  Melody  ............    cxxii 

WfiiiTRHEAD,  Charles  (1801-1862). 

Night     ...............    cxv 


WILTON,  Richard  ( ). 

On  a  Photograph Ixiv 

A  Vanished  Village ,    .    cxviii 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


PAGE 

:  A  cup  for  hope  ! '  she  said 197 

A  wanderer  is  man  from  his  birth 98 

All  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white    ....  258 

All's  over,  then  :  does  truth  sound  bitter 206 

Along  the  garden  ways  just  now 66 

Although  I  enter  not 51 

And  has  the  Spring's  all  glorious  eye 156 

And  when  I  seek  the  chamber  where  she  dwelt  ....  250 

And  you,  ye  stars 89 

An  hour,  and  this  majestic  day  is  gone 158 

Around  my  love  and  me  the  brooding  hills 38 

As,  at  a  railway  junction,  men 72 

As  1  wer  readen  ov  a  stwone 251 

Ask  me  no  more  :  the  moon  may  draw  the  sea    ...  58 

As  ships,  becalm'd  at  eve,  that  lay 89 

As  there  I  left  the  road  in  May 8 

At  Flores  in  the  Azores  Sir  Kichard  Grenville  lay     ...  128 

At  noon  a  shower  had  fallen,  and  the  clime 115 

At  the  midnight  in  the  silence  of  the  sleep-time 198 

Beholding  youth  and  hope  in  mockery  caught    ....  71 

Be  it  not  mine  to  steal  the  cultured  flower 28 

Birds  in  the  high  Hall-garden 65 

Break,  break,  break 254 

Come,  dear  children,  let  us  away 124 

Come,  see  the  Dolphin"1*  anchor  forged— 'tis  at  a  white 

heat  now 144 

Come  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night    .......  207 

Comrades,  leave  me  here  a  little,  while  as  yet  'tis  early  morn  77 

Dear  and  great  Angel,  wouldst  tbou  only  leave   ....  191 

Death  was  full  urgent  with  thee,  Sister  dear 242 

Deep  on  the  convent- roof  the  snows 1C9 

Does  the  road  wind  up-hill  all  the  way 108 

Don't  talk  ov  housen  all  <>'  brick 162 

Dosn't  thou  'ear  my  'erse's  legs,  as  they  canters  awaay  .  101 

Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O  my  brothers      ...  18 

275 


276  Index  of  First  Line*, 

PAGE 
Eleven  men  of  England    .   .   .  .   , 141 

Far,  far  from  here 170 

Fear  death  ?— to  feel  the  fog  in  my  throat 192 

Flow  down,  cold  rivulet,  to  the  sea 167 

Flush  with  the  pond  the  lurid  furnace  burn'd 32 

Get  thee  behind  me.     Even  as,  heavy-curl'd  .......  107 

Glory  of  warrior,  glory  of  orator,  glory  of  song  ......  69 

Go,  for  they  call  you,  shepherd,  from'  the  hill 40 

Go  from  me.     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall  stand 57 

^  Grow  old  along  with  me 185 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 133 

HaYk  !  ah,  the  nightingale 165 

Has  summer  come  without  the  rose ,.    203 

Have  you  not  noted,  in  some  family ...»      52 

Heaven  overarches  earth  and  sea .105 

Here,  in  this  little  Bay -.71 

Here  sparrows  build  upon  the  trees 25 

Her  long  black  hair  danced  round  her  like  a  snake  .  .  ;  .  1-48 
Hide  me,  Mother  !  my  Fathers  belong'd  to  the  church  of  old  232 
How  changed  is  here  each  spot  man  makes  or  nils  .  .  .174 
How  tl.e  blithe  Lark  runs  up  the  golden  stair  .......  152 

I  am  !  yet  what  I  am  who  cares,  or  knows 228 

t' come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hern 28 

ttiave  a  name,  a  little  name    ..............      10 

I  have  been  here  before     .    .   .   .   .   . „   .   .      60 

!•  heard  a  man  of  many  \\inters  say   .:  .    .    ...    .--.    ....    214 

I  know  not  that  the  men  of  old  ,-. 70 

I  loved  him  not ;  and  yet  now  he  is -gone  .  .  .  ;  .  ;  .  .  -  211 
I  love  old  women  best,  I  think  .  .  v  •.  .  .  .  .  .  .  •.  >.  .vi  69 

I  made  another  garden,  yea 205 

1  mind  me  in  the  days  departed 5 

I  never  pray'd  for  Dryads,  to  haunt  the  woods  again  ...  169 
L  sat  with  Love  upon  a  wood  side  well  .  .........  56 

I,  singularly  moved 37 

I  tell  you,  hopeless  grief  is  passionless 209 

I  think  he  had  not  heard  of  the  far  towns 104 

I  thought  once  how  Theocritus- had  suri^.^-. '":'';'  .  : .  .  .  58 
I  wnnder'd  by  the  brook-side  .  .  .  .:  .''v  .  .  .  .  .  v.  ;  6-1 

I'' wonder  do  you  feel  to-day .   ;      26 

I  Wonder  if  the  Angels  .--.-  ........    .-'••.    .    .    .    .   ;    224 

I'd  a  dream  to-night  .   .    .   .   .   .   .   :;  .    .   .   .   .'.   .   .  -.-.-    23 

I f  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  exchange .      55 

'  Tf  I  were  dead,  you'd  sometimes  say,  Poor  Child1 . ; .    .  : .  -250 
If  one  should  give  me  a  heart  to  keep  :   .   .   .   ....'.   .-     &8 

If  only  once  the  chariot  of  the  Morn     ......  v  .    .    .•••'•  '29 

If  .she' but  knew  that  I  am  weeping  .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .-.-.'203 

TT  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for  nought •.      55 

If  you  go  over  desert  and  mountain  .  .  .  ;  .  .  .  .  ;  .  .  230 
In  childhood,  when  with  eager^eyes .  106 


Index  of  Firj't  Liria  277' 

PAGE 

ln:the  deserted,  moon-blanch'd  street 90,. 

In  the  heart  there  lay  buried  for  years     .   .    .'.'..".   - '"'  • 

Is  this  the  ground  where  generations  lie  .   ......   .   .    16'3_ 

It  was  her  first  sweet  child,  her  lie  irt's  delight  .  .  '.'  .  .  '.  ~'fis; 
It  was  not  like  your  great  and  gracious  ways  .'.'.'.  .  .  20'4' 
It  was  the  calm  and  silent  night 11(5 

Last  night  among  his  fellow-roughs 119 

Long  night  succeeds  thy  little  day    ...........      17 

Mighty,  luminous,  and  culm.  .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   . '..  .   . '    3§ 

Mist  clogs  the  sunshine    .    . 1V3 

My  body  was  part  of  the  sun  and  the  dew  ........    I'.i.Y 

My  little  Son,  who  look'd  from  thoughtful  eyes    .  '.   .   .   .      12 

Naiad,  hid  beneath  the  bank   . ......    16\ 

Never  the. time  and  the  place  .  . .  'V     &° 

News  o' grief  had  overteaken 201* 

Nofl  soul  did  hear  her  lips  complain  .   .   .   .   .   ./.  ,'..,   .   .    239,. 

Not  greatly  moved  with  awe  am  I ^ay 

Now  more  the  bliss  of  love  is  felt ,...'.   %    W, 

Now  that  I,  tying  thy  glass  mask  tigfttly    .,   .   .   .   .   .   .   ....  138J. 

O,  Galuppi,  Baldassaro,  this  is  very  sad  to  find   .   .   .   .   .  2^. 

0  let  the  solid  ground 47 

0  life,  O  death,  O  world,  0  time    .   .  . .   .  183 

—  'O  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home  ..........  120 

O  now,  my  true  and  dearest  bride 252. 

ORose!  who  dares  to  name  thee ."..,.   .,  .   .  225 

O  that  the  pines  which  crown  yon  steep  .   .   .   .   .  ,.   .   .  .._  16o 

O  that 'twere  possible   . ,   .,.   .   ...   .    .  221 

O  Thou,  whose  dim  and  tearful  gaze     ...   .   .   ....   .  242 

Oh,  see  how  glorious  show 157 

Oh,  to  be  in  England . 149. 

Oh  what  is  that  country 108. 

Oh  wherefore  cam  ye  here,  Ailie 121 

On  the  braes  around  Glenftrnan 163 

On  the  great  day  of  my  life  .    .    .    .    .    ... 73 

On  the  sea  and  at  the  Hogue,  sixteen  hundred  ninety-two  135 
Our  doctor  had  call'd  in  another,  I  never  had  seen  him 

before ]'. .-'•. ,„  19, 

Poor  Matthias  !    Wouldst  thou  have 33 

Put  forth  thy  leaf,  thou  lofty  plane 228 

Right  on  our  flank  the  crimson  sun  went  down  .  .  .  .  .  117 
Row  us  out  from  Desenzano,  to  your  Sirmione  row  ....  173 

Say  not,  the  struggle  nought  availeth 103 

She  died  in  June,  while  yet  the  woodbine  sprays t24S) 

She  listen'd  like  a.  ctishnt  dove    . ,.52 

Since  through  the  open  window  rf  the  eye .68 

Sometimes  I  think  that  those  we've  lost' .   .    lOti 

T 


2jS  Index  of  First  Lines 

PAGE 

Somewhere  beneath  the  sun 48 

Somewheie  or  other  there  must  surely  be 53 

Sound  the  deep  waters 95 

Strangers  yet b8 

Sunset  and  evening  star 194 

The  ancient  river  glimmer'd  in  its  bed 240 

The  blessed  daiuozel  lean' d  out Ill 

The  edge  of  thought  was  blunted  by  the  stress 31 

The  fancy  I  had  to-day .   .  1^0 

The  girt  woak  tree  that's  in  the  dell 154 

The  hour  had  struck,  but  still  the  air  was  fill'd 249 

The  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day 226 

The  mighty  ocean  rolls  and  raves 63 

The  murmur  ol  the  mourning  ghost 122 

The  primwrose  in  the  sheade  do  blow 8 

The  rook's  nest  do  rock  on  the  tree-top 54 

The  shadows  gather  round  me,  while  you  are  in  the  sun    .  72 

The  sheep-bell  tolleth  curfew-time 15s 

The  song  that  once  I  dream'd  about 159 

The  strong  sob  of  the  chafing  stream 34 

The  words  that  trembled  on  your  lips 198 

There  is  an  earthly  glimmer  in  the  Tomb 251 

They  made  the  chamber  sweet  with  flowers  and  leaves  .   .  62 

They  say  'tis  a  sin  to  sorrow 18 

They  seem'd  lo  those  who  saw  them  meet 199 

They  sleep  in  shelter'd  rest 4 

Tho'  death  met  love  upon  thy  dying  smile 248 

Through  the  black,  rushing  smoke-bursts 171 

Tis  a  world  of  silences.     I  gave  a  cry 216 

Tis  right  for  her  to  sleep  between 241 

To  come  back  from  the  sweet  South,  to  the  North  ....  148 

To  leave  unseen  so  many  a  glorious  sight 227 

To-night  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 31 

Too  fair,  I  may  not  call  thee  mine 210 

'Twas  when  the  spousal  time  of  May 64 

Underneath  the  growing  p-ass 229 

Under  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death 47 

Wailing,  wailing,  wailing,  the  wind  over  land  and  sea    .   .  244 

We  are  the  music  makers 1 

We  now  mid  hope  vor  better  cheer 56 

What  does  1  ttle  birdie  say 2 

What  sight  so  lured  him  thro'  the  fields  he  knew 67 

Wheer  'asta  bean  saw  long  ai  d  me&  liggin'  'ere  aloari     .   .  98 

When  all  the  world  is  young,  lad 68 

When  do  I  see  thee  most,  belove'd  one 211 

Whene'er  mine  eyes  do  my  Amelia  greet 216 

When  I  am  dead,  my  dearest 229 

When  I  led  by  zummer  streams 54 

When  Letty  had  scarce  pass'd  her  third  glad  year  ....  2 

When  sparrows  build,  and  the  leaves  break  forth    ....  213 


Index  of  First  Lines  279 

PAGE 

When  the  dumb  Hour,  clothed  in  black P2 

When  the  four  quarters  of  the  world  shall  rise 10 

When  the  young  hand  of  Darnley  lock'd  in  hers 124 

When  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret 225 

Where  the  quiet-colour'd  end  of  evening  suites 150 

Who  prop,  thou  ask'st,  in  these  bad  days,  my  n.ii.d    .   .   .  K>8 

With  all  my  will,  but  much  against  my  heart 212 

Wreathe  no  more  lilies  in  my  hair 227 

Young  Sophy  leads  a  life  without  alloy 10 

Your  ghost  will  walk,  you  lover  of  trees 21 

Your  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass fl4 

Znleika  is  fled  away •  40 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
Bldg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 

•  2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 
(510)642-6753 

•  1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringinc 
books  to  NRLF 

•  Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4 
days  prior  to  due  date. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


DEC  0  8  1099 


U.  C.  BERKELEY 


VA 


I 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


